Blessed
by Erised Burning
Summary: A story about Harry growing up and killing things.
1. Nagini and the Two Toms

Chapter One

Nagini and the Two Toms

It was a sunny day with blue skies and fluffy white clouds. It was the kind of day that Lord Voldemort liked, because it reminded him of the happier days of his childhood, and, even though he didn't like to think much about those otherwise dreary days being forced to stew in abject muggle filth, he nevertheless did, because even he knew the importance of remembering one's own past. It was a lesson he would not soon forget.

At the periphery of his senses, Lord Voldemort felt the stirrings of a breeze, the swish of a cloak, the passage of human flesh. Someone was coming, and he was glad for it. "Come in," he beckoned, sunshine spilling across his face as clouds flitted here and there, highlighting the stark whiteness of his face. His terrible white face and his red eyes.

"My Lord," said Wormtail, crossing the distance between them, a hunger in his beady little rat eyes. He prostrated himself deeply before his Lord and then stood, holding out his hands as if in supplication. Nestled there, between them, delicate and beautiful and rich with the energy of old, lay a cup. "As you requested, my Lord."

"Excellent, as always, Wormtail. You have proven yourself worthy yet again," Voldemort replied. "Lay it before me and go."

Nodding and silent as always, Wormtail complied, gently, reverently placing the infamous Huffelpuff cup before his Lord and then sweeping out of the room after one final bow.

It would not come as a surprise to many that Lord Voldemort was a cautious man. Some would even go so far as to say paranoid, though Lord Voldemort himself preferred to regard himself as simply being more aware than most others. He had been aware of his magic at the tender age of eight, and he had been aware of his lineage, of his extraordinary power, of his adversaries, of his surroundings. He saw things with great clarity. He was a realist.

It had not taken him long to piece together from Snape's and young Draco's scant reports that Dumbledore had uncovered the secret of his most prized ritual. Voldemort, slotting in the few coincidences, like Slughorn's return to Hogwarts, the mysterious absences, the ruination of Dumbledore's hand - he knew his horcruxes were no longer safe. At the very least, he had to go and check up on them. It had not taken him long to discover that indeed, he was now down three sevenths of his soul. The locket, the ring and diary. You knew it was only a matter of time that Dumbledore would uncover the nature of your first horcrux, he admonished himself. You should have pulled out more quickly. Not that such a thing had really been an option. Fetching the horcruxes while Dumbledore had still been alive would have been just about the dumbest thing he could have done. Dumbledore was nothing if not resourceful, and would have certainly clued into Voldemort's trail and possibly discovered the identity of all his horcruxes. And Voldemort would have been forced to keep the lot of them close to his chest, which would have been the equivalent of painting a giant bull's-eye over his head.

Three down, Voldemort thought, grimacing and glancing askance at his cup.

But now that Dumbledore was gone, Voldemort was free and clear to move with greater speed and forcefulness. The only thing that stood in his way was Harry Potter.

Harry fucking Potter.

A snot-nosed, arrogant little twerp with more lives than a bloody cat. But what were once insurmountable protections placed upon the boy were now dwindling. Strangely enough, the boy was a pawn and a king all rolled into one. All the games that Lord Voldemort had been playing for the last seven years all revolved around him, despite the fact that the boy could only be described as average in magical power, physical strength and intellectual cunning.

And still, Lord Voldemort experienced a queasy feeling every time he thought of facing the boy and killing him. If he had had any knowledge of muggle academics, he might have associated the feeling to the phenomenon known as conditioned taste aversion, a concept Hermione would have been all too happy to explain to anyone who would listen. But, alas, Voldemort continued in his musings, ignorant of this piece of trivia.

Still, after much pondering, Voldemort had come upon a simple, yet elegant solution that he realized would gain him two powerful new allies. Allies that whose loyalty would never be in question. Allies whose identities were basically non-existent in the wizarding world, who had no ties, no other interests, no other distractions. Allies whose magical prowess was unquestionable and whose cunning and magical knowledge were matched only by his own.

Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at the Huffelpuff cup and silently sent a stream of magic at it. Indigo light pulsed around the cup, flashing a myriad of colours, spanning the magical spectrum, until tendrils of smoke wafted off the body of the cup and swirled around one another to an unknown rhythm, beating and pulsing like a heart. Before long, they coalesced into a shape that grew more and more defined with each passing second.

And then, without any fanfare or unusual lights, stood Tom Marvolo Riddle, a dark twinkle in his dark eyes, his hair neatly cropped and pulled back, his lean body clothed in robes of midnight black. He looked curiously at Lord Voldemort for a moment before then turning around and giving his surroundings a curious glance. His gaze fell only briefly on the cup, but, as a true Slytherin, he showed no emotion whatsoever at the sight of it. Piecing together everything that was happening around him, Tom knelt before Lord Voldemort and murmured, "My Lord, how may I serve?"

Voldemort merely smiled at the boy before hissing to the room in general, "Nagini, Tom, step out of the darkness. Join your brother."

Two shapes materialized from the hidden corners of the room. From one side slithered a long snake with blood red eyes like Voldemort's himself, and from the other another young adult male, an identical twin of the first that knelt before the Dark Lord.

"Rise," said the Dark Lord to his offspring. "You do not need to bow before me."

"As you wish," said Tom, who now rose to his feet and eyed his counterparts.

"You encruxed a serpent?" Tom asked. "I did not know you could infest a living host."

Voldemort smiled. "You are a curious one, Tom. In answer to your question, it is something I learned to do much later, when I had cause to learn the fine art of possession. It was yet another modification to the ancient ritual of horcruxry."

Tom just nodded. "I believe that upon you I will confer the name Raven, in honour of your inquisitive nature. Raven, meet Griffin, your brother to your left, and Nagini, your brother to your right."

Tom, now known as Raven, gave a short nod to his soul brothers.

"Now, Nagini, transform," commanded Lord Voldemort.

In a flash, Nagini disappeared, and in her place stood yet another version of Tom, this one much older and sporting the red eyes that were characteristic of the Dark Lord.

Both Raven and Griffin were surprised at this.

"You have learned the art of the animagus?" Raven asked.

Lord Voldemort just smiled. "I would not sully myself with such a thing, young Raven. However, Nagini expressed an interest in the art, and so she has learned it. She is a reverse animagus."

Raven quirked an eyebrow. "Impressive."

Voldemort merely nodded.

"May I inquire as to the purpose for which you have summoned us?" asked Raven. "Surely you must have something special in mind."

Griffin's expression remained unfailingly stoic, which signalled to Raven that he had already been informed.

"Indeed, there is," said the Dark Lord. "There is a thorn in my side. He has caused me a great deal of trouble over the last several years. His name is Harry Potter."

"Potter," all three horcruxes hissed in unison, sneers plastered across their faces as though they were forced to recall something putrid.

Hmm, Voldemort mused. The boy has perhaps left a mark on the soul somehow, for them to have known his name. I shall have to look into it. Voldemort continued, "Yes, Potter. I want you to go forth and kill him. Him and all his friends. Do it in whatever way you see fit. I care not, so long as he is dispatched."

"Of course, my Lord," said the three horcruxes, again in unison.

"Excellent," Voldemort responded, bolstered by the vitriol they felt for the boy. "Go then, and do not return until your task is complete."

With that, the three shades of the Dark Lord vanished in a fit of silent apparations.

Soon, Potter, thought the Dark Lord, soon you will be no more.

Raven, Griffin and Nagini all stood under the long branches of an ancient elm, the sun still at its zenith, the sky still a fresh blue. They were standing on Privet Drive, on the lawn of number six, to be precise, each of them silently gazing upon the Dursley household, their expressions flitting intermittently from contemplative to frustrated to amused to irritated, all in a matter of seconds, as they studied the wards before them, they themselves cloaked under flawlessly cast disillusionment charms.

"What say you?" Raven hissed quietly.

Griffin just shrugged.

"I confess I do not understand them," Nagini admitted, his red eyes still fixated on the shimmering pulse of wards that blended in and out of space and time all around them, and concentrated around number four. "Wards are supposed to have boundaries. Lines, markings. Anchoring stones, warding bases. None of that exists here."

"Of course it exists here," replied Raven agitatedly. "Your mind is clouded by memories of your defeat. The key to these wards is in the blood. The muggle aunt, if I understand correctly."

The other two remained silent for a moment, before Griffin spoke. "I have seen her this morning. It will not do to attack her. The wards are reflexive. They give her protection as well."

""And the two pigs that live there as well," Raven acknowledged. "Albeit it is weaker in them. We could strike them down when they are away from this place. Perhaps at the muggle's work."

"To what end?" asked Griffin. "It will only alert the boy. It does not help that he cares little for these muggles. He will not mourn them."

"They may send him out of his home," Raven countered.

"His friends would no doubt be alerted. I can see an alarm ward nestled within the blood wards."

Raven stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And so his friends would come to his aid regardless. Hmm, interesting."

"We would do better to work our way outside in," suggested Griffin. "Strip him of his protections one by one, until he has no protections left at all."

"Can the boy apparate?"

"Unknown."

Raven pursed his lips. "I do not like this. The Dark Lord would not have assigned this task to us if he were so easy to kill. We mustn't make a single mistake. If we strike at his protectors while he remains insulated under the protection of his mother's blood, then he will no doubt begin formulating plans, preparing countermeasures. He will have the measure of us."

"Only if we permit survivors. Which we will not."

"We should strike at the Weasleys first and foremost. And a guard should remain here at all times. If the boy is foolish enough to leave the protection of his home, then it would be a chance we simply would not want to miss."

"And one of us should execute a strike against the mudblood. His file indicates that she is an average which with a penchant for studiousness. Her diligence in her academics has saved the boy repeatedly."

"As much as tasting the flesh of a mudblood appeals to me," said Nagini, I believe I would serve best by remaining here. My serpent form affords me certain advantages in reconnaissance."

"Perfect," Raven said. "I will handle the Weasleys. I am next in line for seniority, and have recently studied pureblood wards. It may prove invaluable against as old a family as the Weasleys."

Griffin nodded. "Ergo, I will pay a visit to the mudblood."

Nothing more needed to be said it seemed, for Raven and Griffin soundlessly apparated away, while Nagini transformed back into her snake form, her red eyes glowing like hot coals as she gazed intently at the house in which her quarry resided.

Harry wasn't really having a good year. It would probably have been accurate to say that his year had been downright crappy, all things considered. He sucked at his studies, hit a fellow student with a dark curse, learned jack all in DADA, and got saddled with this whole horcrux burden, which he was fairly certain would kill him before he even got started. Not to mention the whole dead mentor thing, which left him feeling distinctly vulnerable, a feeling he didn't like and which only served to remind him just how ill-equipped he was when it came to dealing with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Ah well, he thought morosely as he roughly shoved his trunk into the corner of his bedroom and flopped down on his bed. At least Ron and Hermione plan to die with me. That morbid thought tended to evoke both feelings of comfort and discomfiture, which fused together to form a persistent mania that he couldn't even begin to puzzle out. At the very least, Harry's apparent self-destructive behaviour had the effect of unsettling his relatives, which he took more than a small amount of pleasure in. Dursley baiting was something he had come to distinctly enjoy during his time at Privet Drive, even if he didn't experience true malice towards his so-called guardians. Pah, he thought irritably, old familiar feelings of despair and whininess threatening to overtake him. The only thing they've ever guarded me against is having a bloody childhood. Fuckers.

Currently, it was the fifteenth of June, which meant he had exactly forty-six days in which to figure out how not to get murdered.

You could always live under your invisibility cloak, he thought. A good sticking charm and you'd be free to wander about endlessly through the muggle world, pick pocketing and thieving from unsuspecting muggles. Fuck, you'd probably never need to use your wand again.

Somehow, that idea, as tantalizing as it sounded in the immediate, just didn't strike him as being a viable solution to his predicament.

Ooh, I've got it, he thought, snapping his fingers in the silent air. I'll hijack a nuclear bomb and owl it to Lord Voldemort. Harry let himself have a moment to chuckle at the absurd image of a mushroom cloud rising over the Riddle home.

However, just as quickly as that image came, so too did it leave, and in its place remained an emptiness. Suddenly restless, Harry jumped to his feet and made his way to a small mirror on his desk. He sat down at the second-hand, rickety chair that wobbled ever so slightly, and stared at himself for a long time, almost as if to convince himself that he wasn't a figment of his own imagination. "What are you going to do with yourself?" he asked aloud, his voice sounding unnatural in the quietude of his bedroom. He traced the outline of his scar on the surface of the mirror, with the same kind of reverence that Lucius Malfoy had had back in his second year at Flourish and Blotts. Only, now, it wasn't reverence so much as a mélange of emotions that he could only describe as a burgeoning sense of loss. He wished he could cry, but that ability seemed to have been stripped from him over the years.

"I have no idea how to find a horcrux," he confessed to his mirror image. Harry paused to purse his lips in contemplation before continuing. "I've no clue even how to begin figuring out where the locations are, or what the mysterious object is. I've no clue how to figure out where secret doors are, and about magical traps, or to figure out what potions do just by looking at them." In some part of his mind, he knew that it was probably the dumbest thing in the world to verbalize his doubts and fears in what may or may not have been a secure location, and also to admit aloud all his knowledge on a subject. But now that he had started, he found it impossible to arrest the torrent of his mind. "That's not even including figuring out how to duel. God, I can't even take on Snape when his back's turned to me. Sure, I could probably duel any Hogwarts student to a stand still, and probably a few of the inner circle members. I might even get lucky and hit Bellatrix and take her down in a one-on-one fight, but..." Harry shook himself of his own thoughts. It occurred to him at that moment the acute difference between a leader and a follower; between the things that made Albus Dumbledore great the things that made the rest of them ordinary. Leaders don't have the luxury of excuses. "And I don't really have a choice in the matter," Harry added, more to himself than to his makeshift padre. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't need to have had a choice, because this would have been my choice anyway. If it's one Gryffindor trait I'm proud of, it's that I'm going to die on my feet, fighting Voldemort, his Death Eaters, Scrimgeour, God, even. Who gives a fuck. I'll die like Sirius, and I'm cool with that."

Harry licked his lips with the sudden anticipation he felt; that sudden rush of adrenalin in which his mind began percolating, putting pieces together, forming plans, preparing for war. Yeah, he thought, sitting back and staring out his window towards infinity. Failure is not an option.

Raven stood atop a hill overlooking the ancestral Weasley home, known to many as the Burrow. From his vantage point, he could see into the Weasley's rather expansive backyard, where some of the children were playing a game of Quidditch. From what he could tell, several family members had returned to help with the preparations for the wedding. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it was downright stupid to walk into a home with seven competent witches and wizards afoot. Still, he was Raven, and that meant a thing or two.

Raven cancelled the ocular enhancement charm and contemplated the network of wards that surrounded the Burrow. Unlike the ones guarding the Potter brat, these were pretty standard fare. He had learned that the eldest son - the one with the scarred face, was a curse breaker, and suspected that he had personally overseen the construction of the wards.

Amateurs, Raven thought smugly. And, better yet, muggle-loving amateurs.

If the wards had been designed to eviscerate intrepid muggles, Raven's task would have been slightly more difficult. However, as it were, he was fairly certain he could slip through the wards unscathed and without alerting anyone to his arrival, all the while keeping the wards intact. At least he would have the element of surprise, though it meant he would be unable to cast the unforgiveables due to an anti-dark magic ward. He reckoned the imperius and the killing curses surely would have made his job easier, but he was also excellent at transfiguration and charms and had a good knowledge of defense spells that could be applied in violent ways. And so, with that, he set off to the front yard of the Burrow and began his work.

The first thing he did was put a nearby muggle under the imperius.

"Tell me your name," Raven ask conversationally as he stripped off his clothes. "Don't move," he commanded as he began sapping some of the twenty year old muggle woman's blood.

"My name is Ellyn, Ellyn Sanders," she said in a serene tone.

Gotta work on that imperius curse, he thought absently. She doesn't have quite the right tone in her speech.

"That's a nice name," Raven commented, as he began rubbing the pint of blood all over his body, all the while checking to make sure his Notice-Me-Not field was functioning properly.

"I'll be Mrs. Ellyn Anderson soon," she went on, and Raven guessed she was a natural talker. "I'm going to be married in six days."

"Oh, that's nice. And will you be planning to spawn muggle filth?" he asked, silently commanding her to wait two minutes before making it her top priority, above all else, to enter the Weasley' premises and knock on the front door. Even if it kills you, he commanded.

Even if it kills me, she agreed silently.

Good. Now, wait two minutes while I transfigure myself.

Raven shook himself of the effects of the imperius. It was always hard forcing a person to override their own self-preservation instincts. Ah, well, this one was pliable enough. He slipped his wand into the muggle's back pocket before wandlessly transfiguring himself into a flatworm. He then proceeded to crawl up Ellyn's body and burrow a hole into her torso, where he lay, his tapeworm body coated over in her blood and now nestled inside her flesh. The wards, he expected, would flash over him without registering his magical aura, as it was dampened by the non-magical presence in which he had ensconced himself.

He smiled evilly.

Ellyn, after the two minutes passed, proceeded to march with as much forcefulness as she could manage to the Burrow. When she got to the foot of the driveway, she felt the anti-muggle wards pressing down on her, telling her she was supposed to go home and urinate, or possibly do the laundry. As she pressed inwards, her imperatives grating against the wards, she felt the urge to go home and rub peanut butter all over herself and dance around in her grandmother's panties. Despite this, she pressed onward until, like a rubber band snapping, she made it to the front door whereupon the feeling disappeared. Instinctively, Ellyn sighed with relief as her imperatives once again took hold in her mind and commanded her to knock on the door.

She did so, and, after no response, she banged harder and harder until, finally, a young woman no older than eighteen and with vibrant red hair and freckles to match opened the door and stared quizzically at the woman.

Ginny had been having a pretty good year, all things considered. Sure, Voldemort was running around terrorizing people like some sort of demonic bat in the middle of the night, and sure Dumbledore was dead and Harry had broken up with her. But still, on the bright side, she was thin and still curvaceous enough to be considered pretty by her male peers, and she had good marks in school. Moreover, she'd at least bagged the Boy-Who-Lived for a little while, and that would certainly score her popularity points come next year. Especially since he was back in favour with the Ministry and the public. It would not have done any good to be his boyfriend in fifth year, and how Cho had managed even a little bit surprised Ginny, since she figured Cho was even more airheaded than she herself. And hey, look on the bright side, she thought, now you don't have to worry about being a bloody target while Harry goes off and gets himself killed facing You-Know-Who. After all, Ginny had seen Harry duel at the DOM, and, as good a dueller as he was, he was still nothing special. Certainly he wasn't no You-Know-Who, and, if she were going to bet money on outcomes, well, let's just say she'd pack up and leave for the hills before she bet on Harry. And if he did win, well, it would most likely come at the expense of someone else sacrificing themselves just like his parents had done, and she was certainly thankful that the good witches and wizards of the world that were prepared to do that, and in the line of fire, well, none of them were her, were they?

"Oy, Gin, someone's at the door," called Bill from the nearest hoop. "Get it, would ya?"

"Sure!" she called back, flying her broom to the ground and dismounting. Brushing the sweat from her forehead and pushing her bangs behind her ears, she trudged past a gaggle of garden gnomes and into the kitchen, where she went past her bustling mother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. When she got to the front hall, she could hear an incessant banging that she wondered how her mother had managed to miss. It seemed to be getting louder, as though the person on the other side were growing more and more frantic. With this in mind, Ginny summoned her wand from her upstairs bedroom, effectively performing wandless magic that would have been most enviable to other witches and wizards.

Ginny opened the door and found to her surprise that the person knocking appeared to be a perfect stranger. Instinctively, she glanced past the woman to see who else might be lurking about, but there was nobody. Well, she got past the wards, Ginny thought. She can't be that dangerous.

"Hello? Can I help you?" she asked uncertainly, taking in the woman's muggle attire. But how'd she get past the anti-muggle wards?

The woman however did not respond, instead choosing to open and close her mouth like a fish out of water, as though she could either not speak, or she simply found she had nothing to say. It was, of course the latter.

"Er, we don't want any," Ginny said, as though talking to a pesky salesperson.

And that's when it happened.

At first, Ginny's mind wasn't able to process the visual imagery that it was receiving through the transduction process courtesy of her retinas. The woman seemed to convulse, like she were choking on something. Her eyes widened fractionally before drool and blood began to make its way down her mouth. And after that, Ginny thought she saw the woman's abdomen start to open up as a tear formed vertically from her chest plate to her pelvis. And then, once the initial spurt of gastrointestinal juices and blood and whatever else splashed across the entryway of the Weasley's front door, thereinafter, not two seconds having past, a head began to emerge.

It was Ginny's turn to look like a goldfish. She merely stood gaping at the sight of a young man, naked and lean and bloody crawling out of a muggle woman's body, grinning madly with wet blood smeared across his face.

And, through Ginny's haze of shock one thing registered true and clear. She knew those eyes.

It was perhaps that fact alone that saved her life that day. Though she had never faced the diary form of Tom Marvolo Riddle personally, she had, during her time, been left with remnants of his own thoughts, and a workable picture of how he saw himself, which was left imprinted in her mind during those dark days of possession. Amongst it all, she had spent many sleepless nights alone contemplating those fathomless black eyes; that serpentine smile.

Raising her wand, which was still pretty shaky, she said, "Stupefy."

A red beam shot out of her wand and hit Raven square across his naked, hairless, bloody chest. Even before the spell impacted, Ginny knew from his unfailing grin that the spell wouldn't succeed. Why it wouldn't was another mystery, and one she hardly had time to contemplate.

However, before she could manage to set off the alarms, Raven had drawn his wand from Ellyn's back pocket, after which he finally let her collapse to the ground to die with whatever dignity she had left.

Silently and casually he sent Ginny flying fifteen feet down the hall and through the far door, where she landed in a heap in the kitchen. blearily she looked up and saw her mother's concerned expression as she knelt down beside her. "Ginny?" she asked.

Ginny tried to shake her head to no avail. "No," she squeaked. "No, not me. Look there-" Ginny inwardly cursed herself for panicking as she tried to explain what was happening to her mother. Finally, she settled on whispering. "Attack."

This, her mother understood very well. She gave her daughter one hard look before turning to the Weasley clock, where the last hand was finally turning to mortal peril. Only Arthur's hand remained elsewhere, having chosen to linger on "oblivious".

"My God," Mrs. Weasley said, her gaze fixed on the image of the clock for just a moment longer, her mind refusing to believe what was going on around her. Her deepest fears were being realized.

And then, she saw him, standing in the doorway, staring at her with those penetrating dark eyes, and, finally, she looked at the stove, where her wand was sitting idly by in a pot of chicken noodle soup.

"Molly, isn't it?" Raven asked conversationally as he moved into the kitchen.

Mrs. Weasley slowly got to her feet, her mind racing. Let him cast one spell and then run for it, she told herself. Whoever this is, he's young. He can't be that experienced.

Even as she thought these things, she saw a smile creep across his face. "Not experienced, am I?" he taunted, twirling his wand. "Perhaps I will show you what this youth can do, hmm?"

"Who are you?" she asked, taking a step back. Is he reading my mind? she wondered, her gaze locking with his.

"You don't remember me, Molly?" Raven asked, adopting a hurt expression. "Why, we went to school together."

"School together?" she asked blankly, her mind searching for someone in her year.

"No, no," Raven said, shaking his head. "Not the same year. I was head boy when you were in second year. Don't you remember?"

"Tom?" she asked, still with that blank expression. "but you can't be him. You're so young."

Raven just smiled. "Would you really expect an immortal being to age, Molly. Would you expect the Dark Lord to grow old and feeble, as you have done? Do you think so little of Lord Voldemort?"

It took about thirty seconds for Raven's words to enter Molly's brain and to shape itself into a coherent meaning. Lord Voldemort.

Molly stared at Raven for a good long moment as she digested this fact. "Tom," she said finally in an unusually calm tone.

"Yes, Molly?"

Like all the other Weasleys in existence, Molly had been sorted into Gryffindor, and for a good reason. She was not afraid for her own life, but for those of her children. All she could really say to the being of doom that stood before her was: "Die, would you?"

Raven's smile faltered. Just then, he glanced down at Ginny's form, which had resolved itself into a girl sitting up, her wand now pointing directly at Raven's chest. She said just one word. "Reducto."

Raven's expression widened into disbelief as the magic of Ginny's spell hit him dead center, sending him flying back out of the kitchen.

Molly did not waste any time lunging for her wand. Even with soup still dripping from its end, she made a sharp jabbing motion, activating the alarms. Suddenly klaxons began going off.

"Bitches," Raven swore as he returned to the kitchen.

Molly whirled around just as her sons were coming into the kitchen and just managed to dodge a spell that went by her. When she gained her equilibrium and stared into Raven's face, she was disconcerted to see the smile he was sporting.

"That was a summoning charm, my dear little Molly," he said. "Can you guess what I have summoned?"

"Don't play games with me," she said fiercely, sending a stream of red at Raven, who raised a translucent blue shield that sent her stunner to the left in the direction of her four sons, Bill, Fred, George and Ron. They scattered, now drawing their wands to attack the stranger that had entered their kitchen.

Molly, for some inexplicable reason, felt her energy leaving her. She looked down and saw for the first time, that a narrow blade was sticking out of her chest. That's my carving knife, she thought vaguely as blood stained her white robes. Mother always told me not to wear white in the kitchen. Her rambling thoughts disappeared as the present situation reasserted itself. They do not know that it is Him. Protect your children. None of her kids seemed to have noticed that she was bleeding to death right before their very eyes. Not that she was surprised given the heavy barrage of spellfire that was being sent back and forth between the five combatants on one side and the apparition of Lord Voldemort on the other. He truly is an impressive fighter, Molly thought, staring at him as he maintained a wandless shield while firing off spells so powerful that each one lingered with the acrid scent of ozone in the air.

Molly fired an incendiary hex his way, but he simply batted it aside with a flick of his wand and returned to deflecting the many curses that were being discharged in his direction. As strong as he was, he was gaining ground only marginally. In a fit of superior wand prowess, Raven managed to raise a second shield with his wand which he used to reflect no less than three stunners back at his opponents, while simultaneously sending an evisceration curse that trailed behind. Worse yet, the three stunners formed a pincer around her youngest son and she was certain that Ron would not survive the strength of the combined curses. Raven had already turned his attention back to the other four to occupy them so they couldn't aid their brother.

There was really only one thing to do, as far as Molly Weasley was concerned. In a snap decision, she threw herself in front of the evisceration curse, taking the brunt of it, which slashed her already bleeding body to ribbons.

Her final thought before she died was: This worked for Lily Potter, so it bloody well work for me.

"MOM!" the five remaining family members cried out in unison. Time seemed to stop.

"Oh, did I do that?" Raven asked in the ensuing silence. "You have my sympathies."

Ron, Ginny, Fred, George and Bill all stared dumbfounded at their mother's body, which now lay still and emitting copious amounts of coagulating blood on their linoleum flooring. In turn, as if to confirm what they were seeing, they all turned to face the family clock, where Molly's hand was winking out of existence. And from there, they turned their attention back to Raven.

"You're going to pay for this," Bill finally said. "I don't know who you are, but you're going to pay. Dearly."

Raven just smirked at them. "Oh, am I? Do you think that your threats mean anything to Lord Voldemort?"

It was a testament to their grief and anger that not a single one of them flinched at his name. Bill just responded by saying, "We'll give you a reason to take us seriously. Mark my words."

"You're so not Lord Voldemort," Ron spat. "He's older and's got red eyes."

Raven's smile just broadened.

"You're nothing but a pathetic wanker here to cause trouble," Ron went on. He then readied his wand for another assault.

"Ron," Ginny said, her voice quiet but still cutting through the still air of the Weasley kitchen. "Ron, it's him."

Normally, Ron would have dismissed such an assertion from his younger sister, but there was a unique kind of certainty in her voice that made him pause. He glanced her way, his body still poised to duel, his hand still tightly gripping his wand. Her expression was so intense, that Ron couldn't help but be swayed, even though Ron was sure that the thing in front of them couldn't have been Lord Voldemort. Finally, he gave a tight nod of assent.

"Leave," Bill commanded, his grip on his wand relaxed, even though his body was coiled with anticipation.

"And why would I do such a thing?" Raven inquired, curious as to Bill's response.

"We've you outnumbered."

Raven just smirked an infuriating, Slytherin sort of smirk. "I assure you I'm terrified."

"What do you want, then?" Bill asked.

"I'm here to deliver a message," raven said, twirling his wand momentarily as he composed his next words.

Already Bill was asking, "Well, tell us the message then."

"Ah, but you see, Mr. Weasley, the message is not for you." Raven gestured his free hand to the now dead matriarch.

"Who is it for?" Ginny asked, even though half of them knew the answer.

"Potter, of course. Always Potter."

"We'll be sure to relay it to him," Ron pressed. "Now what is it?"

"Oh, I have no doubt you will," Raven countered evenly. "The message is quite simple. Don't come here."

"What kind of a message is that?" George asked. "What's it matter if he comes here?"

"You can't get him because of the wards," Ron said.

"This isn't the kind of message that is told in a letter," Raven said, shaking his head. "You don't understand. Potter will only understand this message if it comes in blood." Raven cast a glance at Molly's corpse. "Hers, as rich as it is, will not suffice. No, I need the boy's blood. Ron's."

"Hell, no," the others cried out, all of them rallying around their youngest brother. "Then, Bill said, "Not him. Take me, instead. I will duel you. Just let him go."

Raven shook his head. "No, no, no. You're not listening. It has to be Ron. Surely you see that. All of you, or Ron. That is the deal."

"I'm sorry," Bill replied. "Surely you understand we can't simply leave him here."

"It's fine, bill," Ron said, his voice strained as he came to grips with his fate. "It's okay."

"No, it's not!" Bill said, whirling to face Ron. "I'm the eldest here, and I at least have the best chance of surviving. It'll be me or nothing."

A pained expression crossed Ron's face before he steeled himself. "No, Bill. You don't have a chance. I'm sorry. None of us do. It's... I think I get what he is." Ron glanced briefly at his sister. "Yeah, I've a pretty good idea, I reckon."

"Ron," Bill breathed, his scarred face twisting into a grimace. "You can't ask me to leave you here to die."

Ron seemed to have grown accustomed to his fate, because he said in a voice that was more confident. "It's okay, Bill. If I die here, well, it's my own fault really. It's not like I didn't know this day was coming. I should have been more prepared. We don't have the luxury of excuses anymore. The rest of them need you. They need you more than they need me. Keep dad and the twins and Gin and Charlie - keep them all safe."

"Ron, you're nutters if you think we're going to just leave you here," Fred and George added.

"Stay if you like then, but think of what dad'll say when he finds out he's down three sons instead of just one."

"That's a low fucking blow, mate," George pointed out.

Ron just shrugged. "It's true. There's a war going on, you know. We sometimes have to think like Slytherins."

"I love you," Ginny said, now openly crying.

"I love you, too."

Bill just gave Ron a tight nod before turning back to Raven. "When this is over, I'll hunt you down. Mark my words."

"We all will," said Ginny, giving Raven a piercing gaze. "I haven't forgotten you."

Fred and George remained silent, instead just leading the procession of Weasleys out the door.

"So, it's just you and me, then," Ron said. He took a step away from the wall where he had been standing previously in order to afford himself greater maneuverability.

"It appears so."

"Stupefy."

"Eviscero."

Outside, the four remaining Weasleys watched the Burrow as the light of spellfire danced and flickered across the various kitchen windows. At one point, they all winced as the back door was blown apart with a powerful reductor curse.

"How could we let him alone in there," George asked to no one in particular. No one wanted to answer a question like that, because the answer was too painful. While having five people against one was normally a great thing, in the cramped quarters of the Weasley kitchen, it meant they were lambs to the slaughter. Even Ginny could tell that trying to escape under a constant barrage of spells would have been impossible. Raven moved with unnatural speed, and, for some reason, was immune to a wide range of curses. Not to mention he could read their minds, which put them at a major disadvantage.

Bill turned to Fred and said, "Take Ginny to headquarters. Apparate there. George, find dad. Tell him what's happened. And then find Charlie. I'm going to stay behind and take down the anti-apparition ward." Bill immediately turned to begin dismantling the wards that were supposed to keep them alive and which now trapped his youngest brother in their home with the Dark Lord.

The other three did as they were told, disappearing with the customary loud cracks that normally accompanied apparation travel.

Hermione stared at the handsome young man that stood before her on her front step. "Yes, can I help you?" she inquired, a bit nervously. Whoever this fellow was, he had a very nice smile and lean shoulders. Hermione found herself tucking a strand of lose hair behind her ear.

"I confess I am a bit lost," said the young man.

"Oh, okay. Would you like to use our telephone?" Hermione offered.

"Why, yes, if it's not too much trouble."

"Of course not," Hermione said, smiling. Inwardly she scolded herself. Tramp, you're supposed to be with Ron. But then another voice popped up and responded in a seductively sweet voice, Nothing wrong with looking, is there, sugar? It don't matter where you get your appetite, so long as you eat at home, if you catch my drift.

Hermione felt herself turning to mush as he smiled warmly at her. "You're so very kind, miss. And pretty, too."

"It's Hermione," she said, blushing. "Thank you. you're very handsome." As if realizing she had just put her heart on her sleeve, she blushed even more furiously.

"Well, Hermione, thank you," he said once more, mercifully ignoring her embarrassment.

"Right this way, mister-," Hermione said, leading the man into her front hall and then into the living room. She left the sentence hanging, expecting him to finish it, but he did not.

Instead he just said, "My friends call me Griffin." This statement, to Griffin's surprise, did not have the intended effect, and he inwardly cursed himself for the slip-up. He had not expected her to notice such a thing, or to be wary of a name that had fundamentally magical roots, though he should have known better.

To Hermione's credit, she displayed no outward expression that gave away her thoughts. Instead, she calmly asked, "Oh? That's an interesting name."

"Indeed, it is," Griffin replied, drawing his wand in one smooth motion and saying in a clear voice, "Avada kedavra."

Hermione fluidly evaded the jet of green light that sizzled past her skin and responded by silently summoning two Bic pens that plunged into Griffin's wand arm. He grunted in surprise and anger as he looked down at the innocuous writing utensils that were now bleeding ink into his body.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, staring down at the two pens. "Nice spellwork for a mudblood."

Hermione just smiled insincerely. She then cast a stunner that Griffin ignored. It impacted harmlessly against his body.

"Should've known," she said, shrugging. "Horcruxes must have some benefit to their otherwise pathetic existence." Hermione then began rattling off spell after spell, sometimes transfiguring what would normally be innocuous things into razor sharp, deadly objects, and sometimes just aiming for a direct hit.

Meanwhile, Griffin dispelled the two pens and raised a wandless shield while discharging a myriad of spells peppered with the occasional unforgiveable.

"Reducto."

"Reducto."

The television next to Hermione exploded in a shower of sparks, while the desk next to Griffin exploded in a shower of wood fragments. A splinter pierced his already damaged arm, but he did not notice. Griffin took a moment to evade a curse while casting a severing charm at the above chandelier. The modest lighting fixture came crashing down over top of Hermione's head, but was immediately banished in Griffin's direction and chased by a body bind and a transfiguration hex. Griffin raised a wandless shield for the spells and guided the chandelier-turned-projectile harmlessly to one side with his wand.

Both of them paused for a moment to stare intently at one another, both of them attempting to ascertain some point of weakness.

"I underestimated you," Griffin finally said. "What you lack in raw magical strength you make up for in experience and sheer breadth of knowledge."

Hermione just nodded tightly. "You and I both know there's no anti-apparation ward over this house. My apparation skills are superlative." As if to prove her words, she disappeared silently and reappeared behind Griffin, a spell already having been fired in his direction. Griffin, however, was hardly a slouch, and, as if to prove that he were just as capable as a mudblood, apparated out of the way of the curse and reappeared with a spell already discharged in Hermione's direction.

Hermione, in response, raised a shield which she tweaked to deflect the bone breaking hex back at Griffin, which she then followed with another body bind, only to apparate immediately after and begin firing off another pair of curses. Griffin wove a conical shield around his body that shimmered as each spell impacted against it. He seemed to not be interested in playing a game of apparation tag, for he stood stock still and simply waited for Hermione to stay put in one location.

"That's quite the shield," Hermione observed, her wand still poised to attack, sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows to her right making the perspiration on her face stand out. She conjured an elastic band and tied her hair back in a ponytail to keep it out of the way. "Must take a lot of energy to maintain."

Griffin shrugged and let the shield dissolve. "I've got power in spades."

She smiled. "It appears you do. Funny though. You still can't break me."

Griffin tilted his head in acknowledgement. "True, true. You have my respect, Miss Granger."

"So what do we do now?" she asked, eyeing him shrewdly. She could tell a new plan was forming in his mind.

"I could take you to lunch," he offered.

Hermione was, to say the least, surprised by that offer. Her first thought was, Yeah, right. How stupid do you think I am? But, after a moment's contemplation and staring into Griffin's dark eyes, Hermione found herself seriously considering the offer. She supposed she wasn't terribly concerned about being stabbed in the back, so to speak, because she knew of a myriad of mostly foolproof binding contracts that she could use to ensure fidelity between them. Of course, she wasn't entirely sure that they would work on a horcrux specifically, because the rules of magic didn't quite apply to them in the same way - or, at least, that's what the books she requisitioned from Knockturn Alley had said on the subject. Still, she wasn't the smartest witch in Hogwarts for nothing, and expected that she could tweak the spellwork to account for any of the eccentricities intrinsic to such an entity. And think of what you could learn. Jesus H., this is the Dark Lord. He's a walking encyclopedia of knowledge and theory. It's like hanging out with Dumbledore, only Griffin's way hotter and more my age. Well, sort of my age, minus the whole coming from the fifties thing.

"Sure," she said, an unusually dark twinkle in her eyes. "There's a lovely little muggle place down the street. Do you like vegetarian?"

Griffin shrugged. "It's not the food that interests me, Hermione."

"Excellent," she said, clapping her hands together. "Let me just draw up the paperwork, and we can be off!" Hermione proceeded to flounce away to secure parchment and a quill, after which she would layer the document with every lethal jinx and curse she could imagine. It would be the first time she ever used the killing curse in connection with anything, though, sadly, it would not be the last.


	2. Somebody Kill Me

Chapter Two

Oh God, Somebody Kill Me

Harry Potter was well aware that his learning curve was not so much a curve as it was a flat line. He was the kind of guy that learned under pressure, and, more importantly, not just any pressure but the kind of life-and-death pressure under which most ordinary folks would simply crack. On a good day, he might liken himself to a temperamental metal, but usually, he preferred to just stew in feelings of his own mediocrity.

That was why, on June 25, after ten days of religiously practising the most advanced curses he could think of, including the imperius, the killing curse, the obliviation curse, legilimancy, occlumancy, elemental spells, transfiguration, summoning, banishing and a slew of others, not the least of which was advanced apparation and other wandless techniques, he found himself sitting in his bedroom with five warnings for the use of underage magic use, a letter of expulsion, a letter with the date of his trial, a warrant for his immediate arrest for the use of unforgiveables, and, finally, a copy of his NEWT potion texts arrayed in front of him. It was probably this last item that was the most out of place amongst the list of documents that he chose to surround himself. The former were easy enough to understand. As far as he was concerned, he wasn't going to get jack all in terms of help from the Ministry. Fortunately, the blood wards insulated him from them as well as the death eaters, which meant that he should be ready to face the Ministry by the time his birthday rolled around. And hell, if he couldn't even handle a bunch of Percy-esque poindexter paper pusher types, then he was seriously fucked when the Dark Lord came a calling.

The potions texts, on the other hand, took a bit more explaining to understand, albeit not much. Despite Harry's obsessive and continuous use of magic in the Dursley home, for which the Dursleys themselves became the customary targets, Harry Potter, sadly, made very little progress, which resulted in him, in a desperate bid to not end up in Azkaban or dead, searching for an artificial means of enhancing his magic, stamina, strength, speed - anything that might give him an edge in surviving past his birthday. The irony was not lost on Harry that, for the entirety of his life, he looked upon the arrival of his age of majority as a point of freedom, a point at which he could begin living his life free of the shackles of his oppressors.

Idly, he wondered why it was that he hadn't received a letter from either Ron or Hermione. Weren't they supposed to be coming by and making sure he didn't fall into a depression? Or at least help brainstorm on a plan of attack?

As He flipped through the pages of his book, not really reading any single one, his eye managed to catch the sight of two words juxtaposed together: RAGE POTION.

Ooh, what's that? Harry wondered.

The book read: The Rage Potion is not a particularly difficult potion to brew, though it requires specific instructions to achieve the proper effects. Most notable of these is that the fluxweed that needs to be harvested on the morning after the full moon, which must be bathed during that very same morning in fresh blood of the eventual drinker. The ideal steeping time is approximately one hour, though different timeframes may be used for slightly varied effects. The Rage Potion is a Ministry controlled substance due mostly to the side effects, which include permanent psychosis, paranoia, irritability, mood swings and, possibly, dementia. Short term side effects may include: dizziness, nausea, bouts of uncontrolled magic and a sense of euphoria. The primary function of this potion is to, as the name implies, induce a deep sense of rage in the drinker. Expected effects of such a rage include heightened magical power, a command over wandless magic, an aptitude for performing gruesome acts of violence. For a more complete list of effects and the specifics on brewing this potion, please turn to page two hundred forty-six.

Instead of turning to page two hundred forty-six, however, Harry just slammed the book shut and threw it across his bedroom, where it impacted against Hedwig's cage, sending both objects flying into the wall, where they promptly bounced off and clattered noisily to the ground. "Gah," Harry grunted, drawing his wand and lighting the wretched book on fire. "Bloody useless."

He glanced at his alarm clock, which read two forty-six in the morning.

"Gah! Bloody coincidences," he added in a muttered undertone, extinguishing his desk lamp with a flick of his wand and turning to his window to stare out at the envelope of darkness, broken only by the occasional streetlamp. Funny, he thought as another streetlamp winked out of existence. Streetlamps seldom die out.

That thought, of course, made him wonder.

Peering out in the gloom, he watched to see if he could catch any sight of magical activity. Briefly, he thought he saw a ripple in the air as if there were a disillusioned person running about. But of course, there probably was, given that Order members were still watching him. Yeah, but don't they use invisibility cloaks?

From behind a nearby bush, Harry thought he saw a glow of green light around the bush's edges.

"Jesus fuck me," Harry breathed, wide eyed and staring at where he was certain someone had just been killed. And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, the streetlamps slowly began winking into existence.

"Whoa," Harry breathed. "That's even cooler than the instant darkness powder." As if realizing that he was gawking while staring out his window when his protectors were being murdered, Harry pulled back violently and threw himself onto his bed, his heart suddenly beating much harder as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Someone's out there, and they've killed whatever meager protections I had in this place. Probably Dung, given that whoever it was let himself get snuck up on. Harry shook his head to clear any rambling thoughts. Focus, Potter. You've got to start planning.

With that thought in mind, Harry spent the next few minutes contemplating as hard as he could, which led to him looking like Dudley on a rice binge and ending up with little more than a headache, which, in turn, fuelled a deepening melancholy. A melancholy that was transmuting into self-loathing, and, which, come morning, would drive Harry closer to his destiny than anyone could have ever predicted. Resigned, he went to sleep, his conscious defeated, his unconscious percolating.

When Harry awoke the next morning, he went about doing his chores as though he were in a trance. Somewhere between the time he went to bed and the time he woke up, his brain came to the sad realization that he was slowly being suffocated to death. All the people who wanted to protect him, who loved him, who would die for him - they were killing him as much as the death eaters, only in a way that was insidious and gruesomely painful. It seemed, as Harry served his uncle his proper portion of bacon, which meant over a pound of artery-clogging fat, that the only choice he really had left was whether to hide in his uncle's house until his departure date, or to go out there and fight. It reminded him distinctly of those brief, intense seconds as he sat, crouching behind a random tombstone, his wand in hand, sweat dripping down his face and back, Voldemort taunting him, the cool summer night air swirling around him. You knew what you had to do then, didn't you? a voice inside him spoke quietly but with the most severe determination he knew. And you know what to do now.

Harry snapped his head up to gaze in the direction of the bottle of Sunlight next to the sink. It was as though he was paralyzed for those brief moments - long enough for Dudley's bacon to burn, and, as his fat oaf of a cousin called out some derogatory turn to shake him from his reverie, he realized that none of the shit around him mattered. It was him and his wand and the Dark Lord, and, as for everything else... well, fuck it all.

Harry swept out of the kitchen, heedless of the protests of his so-called family.

Wand drawn, he stepped out into the morning sunshine that bathed him in its sweet, purifying light. He didn't know where the wards ended and where his foes began, but he found he didn't care. Nor did he care who saw the carnage that was about to unfold.

"Oy!" Harry called, his expression a blend of emotions that could only be described as stern. "Come out and play." Harry was distinctly aware of the loudness of his voice in the otherwise quiet street. He wasn't sure how, but he could sense his family watching him, fearful that he had gone and snapped, which, by their estimation, would have been the exact kind of thing that a freak would go and do. He expected that others were watching too, though he supposed it was more aptly described as spying. Peeking out from behind curtains, and from the edges of windows, or from around the sides of their houses.

"I know you're there," Harry called out. "And I know you can't harm me. I just want to talk."

Harry waited, confident that his quarry would reveal himself. After a moment, in which Harry suspected his foe was contemplating Harry's sudden and strange actions, Nagini shimmered into view.

"Potter," said Nagini in acknowledgement.

"Voldemort," replied Harry.

"There something you wish to say to me?"

"Yeah, actually, though I reckon you could say it's more of a question."

"And what's that?" Nagini asked, now curious. Her subtle legilimancy probes were not quite able to penetrate whatever occlumancy barriers Harry had managed to erect.

Harry, however, did not answer immediately. He was, for the moment, staring at Nagini in a perplexed fashion.

"What?" Nagini asked, suddenly a little more self-conscious. Harry's gaze seemed to be raking over her body as if studying her.

"Er, no offense, but - are you a girl?" Harry asked, a bit sheepishly and not without a blush creeping across his face.

Nagini simply replied stiffly, "Yes. Do you have a problem with that."

"Er, no," Harry said quickly. "There's so nothing wrong with that, I'm sure."

Nagini pursed her lips, not liking Harry's inquiry. "I trust there's something more relevant that you wanted to speak of?"

Now back on track, Harry returned to his earlier question, and, shaking his head to clear his mind of Voldemort's tits, he said, "Yeah, there is. How do I take these ruddy wards down?"

Nagini did not even blink, let alone change facial expressions at Harry's request. Instead, she merely said. "Kill the muggle aunt."

"Harry scowled. "Surely there's another way."

"Why?" Nagini asked. "Do you intend to take the wards down."

"Obviously," Harry responded, as though Nagini were stupid for even asking.

"Do you have a death wish?"

"No, I'm just terribly arrogant."

Nagini shrugged. "Suit yourself." She drew her wand and made a long arcing motion, like a golf swing. "Just say ensanguium dissolutio."

Harry nodded. "All right. And that will clear the lot of it away?"

"Should," Nagini responded. "The magical backwash should even wipe out the anti-apparation ward."

Harry nodded. "Good. Stand back."

Nagini complied, her curiosity outweighing her indignation at being ordered, though she supposed that if anybody had the right to order her about, it was the Potter brat, as mediocre as he was.

"Oh, and one final thing," Harry said, levelling his gaze at Nagini. "If you have the occasion and the inclination to kill my family, please have the courtesy to do it quickly and painlessly. They mean nothing to me, but I reckon it would satisfy some abstract principle of reciprocity."

Nagini nodded. "I would hardly waste my time torturing muggles, despite what you might think. I gain little pleasure from it. Eating them, on the other hand. Most luxurious."

"Ew," Harry said, scowling. "That's gross."

"To each his own," Nagini replied.

With his last words to Voldemort out of the way, Harry proceeded to take down the blood wards that had been protecting him for the last sixteen years. As he uttered the words and brought his wand down to form a large parabola, he felt for the first time the magnitude of the protections that surrounded him. He had never been what one would call sensitive to the feel of magic, but, right then and there, not even he could mistake the electric pulse of energy that filled him for the brief moment as he connected to the magic that protected him, as he violated the contract of love that was forged through blood sixteen years prior. As they crashed down around him, the ethereal bonds of energy that would curse any being that dared oppose him falling like waves, splashing against the asphalt and disappearing down the sewers, soaking him through to his very being with a now fading quietude.

Distantly, he heard Nagini issue the dreaded killing curse, and distantly, he felt himself duck and weave and reply with a fast, hard stunner. Is this me? he wondered, the pervasive feeling of disconnectedness persisting in the midst of what was a duel for his life.

Harry hit the cement sidewalk hard, four razorblades missing him by a hair's breadth. Wake up, you fool, he admonished himself, blearily gazing about as he saw yet another killing curse heading his way. Damn, the fucker's fast, he thought, willing himself to float off the ground and twirl in midair to level another stunner. Nagini was taken off guard at Harry's artful recovery from which she had expected there to be no escape. The red beam of his stunner, brighter this time, impacted squarely against Nagini's torso, and, to her surprise, sent her sprawling against the ground, her wand clattering from her fingers, only to be wandlessly summoned an instant later.

"Huh," Harry muttered, coming to his feet and eyeing Nagini speculatively. He was dismayed to see that his stunner did not actually stun his opponent, even though, if Hermione had been there, she would have been rather impressed by the power of his magic. After all, a stunner should not have affected a horcrux at all, not that Harry was even aware he was fighting a horcrux.

"Stupefy," Harry said again, and, this time, Nagini raised a wand shield to absorb it, all the while, her red eyes blazing with loathing. Harry also couldn't help but notice that the relaxed posture she had used before was now gone and instead, a wariness and coiled tightness had been adopted.

At least I'm being taken seriously, he thought. Take that, Snape.

"Petrificus totalis," Harry said, but this time, Nagini just waved the spell away, much like Snape had done on the night of Dumbledore's murder.

Hmm, Harry thought, dismayed. This is where your occlumancy, or lack thereof, is going to really hurt you.

Nagini sent a pair of silent stunners, one through her wand and one wandless.

Harry instantly raised a shield against one and turned his body sideways in order to let the wand stunner pass harmlessly by.

Nagini did not cast another spell immediately. Instead, she took towards walking in a slow circle around Harry, though, for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. After a moment, it became apparent. Harry heard the distinctive cry of his aunt, followed by the breaking of glass, as she came flying out through the front window and toward them.

What the fuck? Harry thought bewildered as he saw his aunt crash down at Nagini's feet. Only after a moment did it occur to him that Nagini had used a summoning charm, much like he himself had done during the Triwizard Tournament.

"Kill her quickly, you said," Nagini mused, Petunia's eyes wide with fright.

Fuck that shit, Harry thought irritably. He's looking for a weak point. Well, I'll show him a fucking weak point. He then, with all his might, silently summoned every kitchen knife he could think of. Fortunately, with the window already shattered, they flew out noiselessly, short of the high pitched whistle as they cut through the air en route to Nagini and Harry. Nagini, seeing the anticipation on Harry's face, turned around just in time to not be skewered. She disapparated with a pop, leaving Harry in the path of a dozen knives. Swiftly, Harry dove for his aunt, clutched one of her clammy, sweat-soaked hands and apparated the pair of them to the Dursley living room, though, not a second later, he sensed rather than saw Nagini apparate right behind him. Harry summoned Dudley's silver boxing trophy from the mantel piece just as Nagini was casting yet another killing curse. Harry only barely managed to apparate out of the way, but stayed long enough for Nagini to take the brunt of the heavy silver object right in the back of the head.

Unfortunately, Petunia remained in the path of the killing curse and was dead by the time Harry reappeared at Nagini's side. Already Harry was casting a body bind at his assailant, not even paying attention to the lifeless eyes of his aunt staring up at the ceiling.

If she could have, Nagini would have rolled her eyes at Harry's stupidity. Even as the body bind hit, she wandlessly conjured a dagger that embedded itself directly into Harry's stomach, though Harry hardly noticed for a good second as he hit Nagini with another stunner that only served to daze her.

"Oh fuck,' Harry said, staring down at his stomach, much like Molly had done not too long ago. "I'm gonna fucking die." Harry instinctively repelled the dagger from his stomach, which only served to send more streams of blood and other fluids the identities of which Harry could only guess at, coursing down his body, tickling the smooth skin around his waist. He staggered backwards and watched awestruck as Nagini rose once more to her feet.

"Imperio," Harry said desperately, but the spell just splashed uselessly against her skin. Nagini raised an admonishing finger at Harry, even as he staggered further backward and fell onto his butt. "Did you think a mere stunner would defeat Lord Voldemort?" Nagini hissed, and though Harry couldn't tell, he was fairly certain she was speaking in Parseltongue.

Harry raised his wand and desperately wish with all his might that a reductor curse barrel out of his wand. Somehow, he managed to achieve that pinnacle point of desperation that allowed him to tap into the powers of silent spell casting, for a blasting hex did in fact emerge, though by now, Nagini was ready for it and simply reflected it back at Harry, who had to raise a shield against not only the reductor, but also a second blasting hex, aimed directly for his heart. Knowing that he couldn't dodge and that his shield would only hold up against one of them, he let the first one impact against his shin and absorbed the second one with a shield. Fuck, he thought, blood drying around his stomach and bones grating around his ankle. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," Nagini hissed. "Avada kedavra."

"But Harry, still resisting, despite being at the shit end of the stick, simply summoned a couch pillow to intercept the curse. To both of their surprise, it did not explode in a fit of feathers. Harry banished it at Nagini who caught the pillow full on in the face. Harry proceeded to crawl away, leaving a trail of coagulating blood and bone fragments in his wake.

"Where in the world do you think you're going?" Nagini asked.

"You know," Harry managed. "I could just apparate."

"And I could just follow you."

Harry conceded, and then, with a great effort, apparated away, giving Nagini a glance in order to convey a silent challenge: Follow me, if you can.

Nagini was not one to back down.

Harry apparated to the roof of the Dursley home and immediately fired off reductors in every direction he could think of, hoping to get lucky by hitting Nagini as she was apparating in.

No such luck.

"Crucio," hissed Nagini, but Harry just summoned a shingle to intercept the curse, and then banished it right back at Nagini even as she was cursing the object. She didn't have time to move and the rectangular wooden block hit her squarely on her wand hand, forcing her to drop her wand. She immediately cast a wandless shield, but did not count on Harry hitting her wand with an incendiary hex. It exploded into flames just as she had her fingers around it. "ARGH," she yelped, pulling her hand back just as she felt a reductor impact against her shield. Harry began sending blasting hex after blasting hex in a hope to wear down his opponent. However, Nagini had other plans, and instead apparated five feet to one side and conjuring a dagger as she went.

Harry already had his wand trained on her and sent another blasting hex her way, only this time, she apparated with a dagger in hand, and came within inches of Harry's body. He widened his eyes and instinctively banished the dagger backwards, so that its handle was driven into Nagini's solar plexus.

Harry then banished her off the rooftop, only to see her apparate back on and with another dagger in hand. This one she banished in his direction, but he was ready, electing to apparate to one side and catching the dagger with a summoning charm. He redirected it at Nagini and, predictably, she disapparated once more, wherein Harry took a gamble and predicted that she would appear right behind him. With this in mind, he pointed his wand upward and aimed yet another blasting hex.

Paydirt.

Nagini took a face full of the hex and Harry was satisfied to hear the distinctive sound of bones breaking. he could not help but smile at the shriek that emanated from Nagini, followed by bloody teeth falling all around him.

Harry banished her off the roof once more. However, he did not count on his opponent's resilience. She returned immediately and managed to drive yet another dagger into Harry's body. This time, she sliced a deep gash across the bicep of his left arm as he defended his throat. Even as she was doing this, Harry jabbed his wand in her direction and whispered in a desperate bid for a moment's reprieve, "Sectumsempra."

Nagini had clearly never heard of the curse, as she did not react to its name. Instead, Harry saw with satisfaction the long, deep gash form across her chest, and blood immediately beginning to gush out. Unfortunately, it wasn't as deep as the one he managed with Draco. Nagini staggered about drunkenly before falling onto her butt, much like Harry had done in his living room. Harry aimed another blasting hex, but Nagini had the presence of mind to raise a shield.

"Die already," Harry hissed, throwing every hex and curse and jinx he could think of, even the trip jinx, which of course would have been useless since Nagini was sitting on the ground. To Harry's further irritation, the balding hex slipped through, which served only to make Nagini even uglier than before, but to do no real damage. Now with a bloody face, broken nose and missing teeth, she was also bald. It was at that moment that Harry had pause to think. Wait, he thought, Voldemort's already hairless. And a male, to boot, he thought, pondering the issue. Is this yet another freaky dark transformation, or is he just coming out?

Or is this something altogether different. Now having a chance to survey the Voldemort before him, Harry began to see peculiar differences. If I'm not mistaken, he thought, his mind working through each step carefully and slowly, this one's younger.

"It can't be," Harry breathed, still fixed on Nagini's form. "No way. You're a horcrux? That's... that's just fucked up. He sent horcruxes after me?" Harry just sat, in the process of swooning from blood loss even as his magic desperately tried to conjure more on an instinctual level to save his life. "I got my ass kicked by a Goddamned horcrux," Harry said, turning his gaze from Nagini to stare out into infinity. "A bloody horcrux." Once the realization worked its way through the entirety of his mind, Harry found he could do nothing less than toss his head back and laugh manically.

"What's so funny?" Nagini demanded, though her voice came out distorted due to her broken up face.

Harry just shook his head and wiped away his tears. "I just - it's - I -" However, he found he couldn't manage a coherent sentence and just let himself return to a fit of giggles. He wasn't even sure why he was laughing except that he hadn't slept very well the night before, and because of the ludicrousness of the situation he was in, and because he had been so desperate to find the horcruxes, and so afraid he would be incompetent and now, just having one in front of him, and with breasts, no less. It was all too much.

Once he managed to regain control of himself, Harry faced Nagini once more, though, to his dismay, she was no longer there. "Wha-?" Harry managed, whipping his head around in sudden terror.

And then, before he could react, he found a really big snake slithering around his torso, encircling him, to which he was only able to utter one word, "Nagini?" Harry continued to stare dumbfounded at the snake that he had seen in his nightmares, first at the Riddle home when Frank had been murdered and then at the graveyard where Voldemort had been resurrected, and, finally, the night Mr. Weasley was attacked, when Harry had apparently entered Voldemort's mind so deeply that he became aware of the connection to the Boy-Who-Lived.

And now, Nagini was coiled around him, poised to kill. already, she had her fangs buried deep into his wand arm, though he could hardly feel it. Whether that was because of the venom that was now entering his bloodstream or because of the shock of having so many severe injuries, he didn't know. In yet another bid for survival, Harry's magic apparated him away from the deadly snake and to a place Harry hadn't seen in about ten years. Namely, the roof of his primary school. He looked around dazedly, blue skies and sunshine raining down on him in all directions. Get a grip on yourself, he thought wearily. You need to get help. Harry proceeded to climb to his feet, however unsteady he might be, he wanted to know that at least he could still walk. He conjured a makeshift splint and eased his smashed up tibia back into a position that resembled a normal leg. Once he felt strong enough and able enough to hobble about, he took a good look at his surroundings and finally figured out where he was. Now it's a question of figuring out where to go. He wasn't sure he wanted to lead the horcrux anywhere particular. Nagini had already proven her superior magical strength.

Just then, he saw Nagini crawling towards him. Fuck, he thought. Thinking he might have an advantage with her in her serpent form, he sent a slicing curse at her, only to watch as a wandless protection shield appeared around her, deflecting the curse back at Harry, who apparated two feet to the side. Nagini pounced with lightning speed, but Harry already had a summoned chunk of roofing on hand to intercept her. To his dismay, she used magic to perform a zigzagging motion that looked distinctly like flying in order to avoid it.

Harry just threw his arms over his face as Nagini wrapped herself around him in one smooth stroke and bit down on his neck, causing more poison to seep into his body and blood to gush out. He staggered forward and fell into the depression he made where he had summoned the piece of the roof. Unfortunately, the material underneath the bricks was paper thin and gave way like tin foil, so that Harry found himself, with a snake still wrapped around his torso, crashing down onto some six year olds wooden desk, which promptly collapsed in a fit of wood shrapnel and sawdust, causing the little girl's legs to break as they were caught under him, and causing, unsurprisingly, a lot of gasps and cries of surprise from the various other children and the teacher. Harry, whose glasses were now broken, and who had a shard buried painfully into one eye, stared up at the primary school teacher as tears and blood and dust settled over his body. His only thought as he stared at her horror struck face, the sound of a little girl whimpering in the background was, Hey, her hair's still blue.

The sound of Nagini hissing his name broke him from his reverie. "What do you expect me to do about it?" Harry asked belligerently. He was oblivious to the further developing shocks on the children's faces as he conversed with Nagini in Parseltongue. The snake tried to bite him once more, but this time, Harry managed to wandlessly and silently apparate the snake into the air, while he fumbled around for his wand. Instead of crashing down next to him, Harry found that Nagini was just hovering in midair, its red eyes gazing at all the students. Harry rolled over onto his back, despite his protesting body. He was already certain that his makeshift splint was gone and that his leg was a total bust. Probably his other one too.

Just as Nagini dove down like a seagull hunting for fish, Harry raised his wand and picked her out of midair with a well placed blasting hex. A shield formed around Nagini in the nick of time, but it threw off her aim so that she ended up crashing into the side of the desk and not the boy that was sitting in it.

"Whoa!" exclaimed the boy, wide eyed. "That is so cool!"

"Everybody, out of this classroom this instant!" cried the teacher, her voice thick with fear.

However, none of the children moved. Instead, they watched mesmerized between the human combatant and that of the snake. It rose into the air once more and Harry sent another blasting hex at it.

"Good grief," Harry wheezed, the poison and blood loss getting to him, not to mention the pain. "Do what the old bag says, would you?" Nagini just managed to avoid a second blasting hex and landed gracefully atop little Jimmy's desk. She reared her head back to aim for a strike and avoid a vicious slicing curse that Harry sent her way. The curse managed to nick her on her throat, which sent a spurt of blood splattering against little Jimmy's face, to which all the other students gasped in unison. And then, in a flash, Nagini had her fangs buried deep into the boy's throat.

"Gurgh," little Jimmy spluttered weakly, his left arm coming up weakly to futilely bat away at the snake creature.

"Jimmy!' the blue haired elementary school teacher said pitifully, her eyes wide, her whole body trembling with fright. "Kids, she managed. Come, now. Get out." To her credit, she actually tried walking over to the snake in an attempt to hover menacingly about it. "Shoo!"

At first, Harry could only watch dumbstruck as he saw the little boy's blood gush out of his neck where a 'large gouge had formed. He wasn't sure what exactly horrified him about the boy's now imminent death. Harry had seen enough in his lifetime, had felt enough that he thought he was mostly over the romanticized elements of war. Maybe it was the suddenness, or the feeling of powerlessness that he had in stopping this from happening. That he had for stopping Nagini from murdering each and every one of the children in that classroom. In that dark place in his mind, where he drove himself to exhaustion, where he pushed himself again and again, without any regard for his own life, that place that drove him to always say, "Just one more time," even if that meant putting him in the path of another dementor-boggart to practice the Patronus charm past what might be considered healthy, in that dark place where rationality and articulability did not exist, one thread amongst many snapped.

"You bitch," Harry hissed in Parseltongue, his wand pointed at Nagini. Though he didn't utter an incantation, nor did he have a specific spell in mind, his magic seemed to understand and a spell made of sapphire blue light emerged from his wand.

Renewed by the fresh blood coursing in her veins, which had the side effect of healing parts of her most egregious injuries, Nagini turned to face Harry and the blue bolt of energy travelling her way. Immediately, she responded by raising a solid blue shield, which to her surprise, was shredded like tin foil by the force of Harry's magic. The unknown spell hit Nagini hard, going so far as to induce multiple cuts, puncture a hole right through her body like a hole puncher, and then pick her up and fling her with enough force into the concrete wall at the far end of the classroom such that the concrete sizzled and smoked and shattered so that Nagini flopped motionless onto the ground in the hallway beyond.

Harry, meanwhile, was wiping tears of dizziness and pain from his eyes with one bloodied hand, before he managed to clutch onto the side of a desk and drag himself to his feet. That is, until he realized he was missing one entirely. Looking down, he could do no less than grimace and sway a little. Fortunately, after little Jimmy's untimely demise, the kids had mostly fled, a few cowering in the corner. The teacher had just fainted and lay silently breathing on the ground, one hand over her chest. Harry was distinctly aware of the stink of sweat and ozone and blood in the air, but he tried to ignore it as he cauterized whatever wounds he could and cut away with the cutting curse excess flaps of flesh. Finally, he managed to sever all the useless parts of his leg, which meant he was legless on the left side from the knee downwards. Silently, he conjured himself a stick of wood, much like Mad Eye's and attached it with a simple sticking charm. He then tentatively stood, just as a group of adults were entering the classroom.

"My God," one of them breathed, staring at the preponderance of blood, at the center of which was Harry James Potter and an unconscious, blue-haired schoolteacher.

"Imperio," Harry muttered, thankful that he got it right. Silently, he told the principal what to say, and the balding man to his right and the various others were too much in shock to object. The lot of them quickly departed and not too soon, for when Harry went to go investigate Nagini's corpse, he discovered to his dismay that she in fact was not there at all.

Fortunately, she hadn't gotten to far, Harry suspected. A trail of blood led him to a nearby classroom that was unusually silent. He peered inside and saw that the window was fogged up. She's taken hostages, I reckon.

Well, there was only one thing to do. He stepped back, a few paces and gave his peg-leg the evil eye, as if to say, "If you fuck me over in the middle of this battle, I'm so going to use you for firewood." Then, with a quiet pop, Harry disappeared and reappeared towards what he hoped was the far wall. Immediately, he whirled around and spied for his quarry.

"AAH!" the teacher cried out.

The scene that Harry intruded upon was not one he would have expected. From what he could gather, a perfectly normal, perfectly calm and peaceful game of show and tell was taking place. There was a kid standing at the front of the class with a little green iguana. The child with blond hair was so nervous, he hadn't even noticed Harry until the instructor looked up and cried out in surprise. The little blond boy, Nathan, was so shocked he dropped Trevor, his iguana and stared dumbly at Harry Potter. Trevor scampered away and was promptly eaten by a disillusioned Nagini that was coiled at the back of the room and under a simple Notice-Me-Not field. Hmph, Nagini thought bitterly, still licking her now severe wounds. The boy doesn't even have the skill or presence of mind to conjure a portable Notice-Me-Not field, or to apparate with it.

Harry just stared dumbfounded at all the little wide-eyed children looking up at him as though he were the coolest thing they'd ever seen at show and tell, which, quite frankly, was probably true.

"Er, don't mind me," Harry said meekly, completely oblivious to the grim visage he presented with blood streaked across his body, an obvious stab wound in the stomach that should have been fatal, and his newly acquired prosthesis; not to mention that he was half standing in the morning sunshine that was streaming in through one of the windows, which only served to heighten his appearance with a golden halo around his body.

"It's a demonic angel," one of the kids whispered to one of the other kids. "Like Spawn."

"Cool," replied the other kid.

"Hmm," Harry said blandly, as if his showing up in the middle of show and tell were an everyday occurrence. "You wouldn't have happened to have seen a fifteen foot snake with red eyes slithering about anywhere? I seem to have misplaced her."

The children just shook their heads, while the schoolteacher tried to form a coherent sentence. Harry, seeing that the muggle was about to try and take control of the situation, which he was seriously ill-equipped for, just silently hit him with the first silent spell he knew. Levicorpus.

In a flash, Mr. Mathews was hanging upside down by his feet, his blazer falling about his head and his glasses clattering noisily to the ground.

"Whoa!" the kids cried out, their eyes now even wider than before. Harry then proceeded to obliviate the teacher and stun him and stick him to the wall somewhere out of the way.

"Authority figures," Harry said ruefully. "Never cared much for them, wouldn't you agree?"

The kids just nodded their heads.

"Excellent," Harry said, clapping his hands together. "Now, I'm only going to say this once, so I want you all to listen up very carefully." He paused to take a deep breath, and then, seeing that some of them were not quite paying attention, Harry asked in his best Snape impression, "Am I making myself clear, John?" Immediately, all the children whirled around to face some poor little kid named John. In truth, Harry had no clue what their names were, but he figured there had to be a John in the crowd, and, sure enough, there was, which only placed the kids in even greater awe and fear of him. Hmm, Harry pondered, so this is what it's like to be Lord Voldemort. Not too bad, actually.

"Yuh-uh-yes, sir," John managed in the girliest little voice Harry had ever heard.

"Good," Harry replied, sweeping the classroom with his gaze once more. "Now, listen up. There's a really big bad snake in here, somewhere, and I'm here to kill it. It's probably invisible, and it will probably start killing you when it shows."

There were gasps all around.

"That's right,' Harry affirmed. "And, to tell you the truth, I don't care very much right now if it kills you or not. Therefore, you can either pack up your things and quietly leave, or you can stay here and face certain doom."

Whatever answer the children were expecting, that apparently wasn't it. Still, they must have had some sense of self-preservation, because they all began quietly and in an orderly fashion, packing up their belongings and departing the classroom. Harry just watched, amused as the last one left and quietly closed the door behind her.

"Wow," Harry said aloud to no one in particular. "Who would've thought. They really can be mature if given half a chance." He gave an idle glance in the direction of Mr. Mathews, before turning back to the room and calling for Nagini to show herself.

"Come on" Harry said. "I know you're here somewhere. What's the deal, anyway? Ain't I the one who's supposed to be deathly afraid of you?" Harry could almost feel the scowl playing across her snake lips.

Harry shrugged. "Suit yourself. I don't know nothing about wards, but I reckon my dissipation charm'll do the trick." Harry began firing off finite incantanums in all directions, until, finally, he hit paydirt.

Nagini, seeing that the jig was up, transformed back into a human and glared at Harry. "So, you've caught me, then. What's stopping me from just disapparating?" Nagini asked.

"I'll just follow you," Harry replied, grinning cheekily. In truth, Harry had no clue how to follow an apparation signature, but he figured he'd pick it up along the way if it were really all that important. Besides, Nagini wasn't in much of a condition to apparate, with a fatal flesh wound and the multiple slashes that littered her body.

"I underestimated you," Nagini said shortly, her gaze falling to his wand.

"That you did," he agreed, his expression losing all trace of false joviality. "That you did, indeed."

"I do not understand how it is that you have not died from my venom," she stated, a question underlying her words.

Harry nodded, almost sagely. "Mmm, I admit I am at a bit of a loss, though I confess it is not the first time I have been bitten by a snake."

"Ah, the basilisk," Nagini agreed. "I had forgotten about her. It makes sense now."

Harry just shrugged. While it didn't make sense to him, he also found he didn't care very much. He wasn't about to go looking a gift horse in the mouth.

"Shall we duel one last time?" Harry asked. "For good?"

"I do not have a wand."

Harry shrugged once more. "That's hardly my problem. After all, you started out with one, and it was through your own miscalculation that you lost it." and then, in an uncharacteristically somber voice, Harry said just two words. "Avada kedavra."

A green bolt of energy issued fast and hard from his wand.

The pair dueled for several more minutes, burning most of the desks to ash, smashing apart many of the walls, including bringing the ceiling down upon them, twisting and melting whatever metal was there, not to mention conjuring various deadly items with which to dismember one another. They both earned their fair share of cuts, and, while Nagini had to remain mostly on the defensive, given that she did not have the breadth of magical spells available to her due to her lack of a wand, she had far more experience and two forms with which to move about. as a serpent she was deadly in her own right.

"Reducto."

"Disfugio."

"Evangelo."

"Razurro."

"Aiguio."

"Eviscero."

"Parrio."

"Exsanguio."

"Verouillo."

"Tourbillo."

Harry caught bits of shrapnel on his arm from the whirlwind hex, but, fighting through the pain, he managed to bounce back quickly enough to hit Nagini with a cutting curse on her knee. She stumbled and fell forward, but, just as Harry had done, managed to fire off a blasting hex just as she was falling, leaving Harry only a fraction of a second to get out of the way. The hex clipped him on his hip, where it managed to fracture his hip bone and send blood spurting out down his already shredded trousers and across the tile floor. Harry responded by summoning a jagged piece of the chalkboard, which slashed diagonally along her back as she tried to roll out of the way, only serving to smear blood across the ground. Harry limped over, his body propped up by the wall. Nagini was twitching uncontrollably now, her magic having spent the better part of five minutes in overdrive as it tried to continually heal the multitude of deep wounds that had been inflicted on her. Similarly, Harry found he was having trouble performing even the simplest functions like breathing now. Still, he pressed onward.

Nagini cast another spell at him, but it simply fizzled out before it left her fingertips. Harry's wand, which was sporting hairline fractures, meanwhile, was seeping smoke from the wood.

Harry fell to his knees right next to her and aimed his wand right at her left temple, a wild grin on his features. "You're tough, he rasped, "I'll give you that. But there ain't no way you're gonna survive a blasting hex to the head at point blank range, sugar."

Nagini's eyes widened as she tried to raise her one good arm to her defense. Still, Harry had picked the side where she couldn't quite maneuver her arm into place to defend herself, so instead, she just made muling noises and tried to bite at his arm futilely. She didn't even have enough energy to transform, not that it would have done her any good. Still, she wasn't the Dark Lord for nothing, and, in one final act of desperation, apparated with a pop, leaving Harry gawking at the vacant space that remained in her wake.

"No, no, no," he muttered to himself over and over again, his eyes suddenly and wildly searching the now warped classroom, where Mr. Mathews shredded flesh peppered the twisted hunks of metal that was were once parts of the various desks. Many of the walls had been warped inward from the heavy magic, giving the room a puckered look.

Goddammit, no, Harry wailed silently, his peg leg blackened and still issuing smoke from the two times it had been lit ablaze. Desperately and angrily and psychotically, he pointed his wand at himself and said, "Apparatio," all the while, blanking his mind of all possible destinations and hoping that he would just get lucky, as opposed to apparating to oblivion or limbo. He didn't even notice that his wand scorched his hand from the backlash that sent him away.

When he appeared, he found himself falling, while, all around him was a stinging brightness. Great, he thought. I'm going to die. But, just then, he impacted against what he could only assume to be a body, his arm cracking underneath him as he plunged past the body and into icy water. Being completely unprepared, he felt half his body go into shock, while the other half just drowned, all the while he flailed one arm uselessly in an attempt to break the surface.

Eventually, he managed to, the water not being as cold as he had feared it would be, and the sun beating down against his wet face, his glasses long gone, his pierced eyeball no longer leaking stringy fluid but not really functioning, the suddenly familiar sight of the Hogwarts castle looming in the distance. Under more normal circumstances, he might have been thrilled to see his only real home, but right now, his mind was too ravaged with the feral taste of battle. He recalled hitting something that he thought might have been a body when he first hit the water. Harry scoured about and saw that indeed, the squid was tossing a body onto the lake's shore, and Harry watched with more than a bit of satisfaction as its head lolled uselessly about. Maybe the fall killed her, he thought, before he found himself being hefted out of the water and squeezed to death by the squid. "Gah!" He managed, spluttering out water and blood as he hit the ground hard and rolled over to one side.

Determinedly ignoring the pain that raked across his body, he managed to roll onto his belly and begin crawling over to Nagini, who, meanwhile, was trying to crawl away to no avail. It looked as though both her legs had been broken as well as both her arms, which meant that Harry, who only had one broken arm and two broken legs, was at a distinct advantage.

"Gotcha, you fuckfaced little bitch," he wheezed, throwing himself on top of the female version of his mortal enemy and, with weeds and other gross things hanging out of his messy black hair, proceeding to strangle her with one hand, while both her arms twitched like chicken wings. "Die, die, die, die, die," Harry chanted as he thrust again and again with his thumb down on her neck. Something's gotta give.

Before long, Nagini's eyes rolled into the back of her head and she gurgled out a pool of blood. Still, she did not die, and, instead, managed to catch Harry's hand in her mouth and bite down cruelly and with all her strength so that she broke most of Harry's fingers. He shrieked in pain and fell off her, collapsing to her side and twitching spasmodically. Nagini, however was not finished and instead leaned into him, throwing one arm over his body to keep him from rolling down the gentle slope that they were on. She then leaned in while Harry struggled to fight through his pain and bit into his throat. Though she didn't have her razor sharp, serpent teeth, she had a strong enough jaw and the enthusiasm to rip apart Harry's throat widely, letting bouts of blood spill out and overwhelming his magical core's ability to replenish his vital fluids. Within seconds, Harry's body went limp and his eyes took on that vacant quality that indicated that all the life had been drained from him.

Sated, Nagini collapsed onto her back and stared unblinking into the mid-morning sky, while Harry's body rolled down the gentle slope and settled in a patch of fluxweed, his still warm blood continuing to flow in rivulets across their silky, green blades.

Soon, Nagini thought, her eyes wild, the taste of Harry's rich, vibrant, dark red blood on her tongue and lips, soon, my body will heal and I will return the victor. I am Lord Voldemort.

Nagini never noticed the small shadow that crept up behind her, silent as a breeze on the open seas.

Dobby wasn't exactly the most educated creature in the world. In all likelihood, he was even a little mentally retarded. Other elves sometimes made fun of him for wearing all those silly hats that threatened to topple over at any time. They whispered behind his back, pointed fingers, gave each other knowing looks and sometimes even made the circular finger motion for the universal sign of insanity, when Dobby wasn't looking. Unbeknownst to Dobby, this was exactly the kind of treatment that Huffelpuffs got from the rest of the school, and, if Dobby had been a human, he would have surely been sorted into that House. For, if Dobby were anything, he was loyal. Some would say even, that he was loyal to a fault.

It was not hard to figure out exactly to whom he was loyal, either. Harry Potter, had, after all, treated him with the basic kind of dignity that he treated all beings, and that had meant a lot to Dobby. Harry had gone out of his way to save Dobby from his cruel fate with the Malfoys, for which Dobby was eternally grateful and which cemented his long-standing belief that Harry Potter's life was more important than the lives of every other witch and wizard on the planet, including that of Dumbledore's.

And so, it shouldn't have been a surprise that Dobby felt the death of his one true friend - the one person who he would have been happy to have called a master. After all, loyalty, like love, breeds a magic unique unto itself. When Dobby saw what had become of his friend, he, surprisingly enough, did not go into shock, nor did he rush to his friend's aid, or commence the mourning process that sentient beings normally underwent at the sight of the death of a being with whom they had an emotional attachment.

Dobby, instead chose to assess the situation, and, like so many times before, executed a plan to save the Great Harry Potter's life. Glancing about, he first spotted a wand. He went and picked this up. It should be noted that Dobby was not completely without mental faculties. He knew, for example, that picking up a wand was a serious criminal offense for an elf. And he also knew that, what he was about to do next, would classify him in the category of dangerous, deranged and dark.

He went up to the strange female with the red eyes that made him shudder. Dobby wasn't exactly sure who she was, but she was really bad off, if his eyes were not deceiving him. Moreover, he got a funny vibe from her, like she were unclean, or maybe evil, or something. Regardless, she was a good candidate for the plan, and it didn't really matter whether she was good or evil. It didn't even matter if she were a saint. She simply could not be better than Harry Potter.

And so, creeping up behind her, Dobby pointed the Holly and phoenix feather wand at her unsuspecting head and said two words, giving the strange woman only enough time for her expression to go from jubilant to puzzled. "Avada kedavra."

In a flash of green light, she was dead. Dobby, having spent a long time in a house of dark wizards, was confident he could pull this one off, as daring as it was.

The wand, now rich with the backlash of soul energy from the properly executed killing curse, quivered as if in anticipation for the next part of the ritual. "Animus severo," said Dobby, pointing the tremulous wand at himself. A grey beam of energy coalesced around his torso and, with a sharp downward stroke, cleaved the shimmering silver light that emerged from his body partway. And, with half that shimmering silver light now oozing down his arm and towards his wand, Dobby said one final incantation, this time pointing the wand at Harry's body. "Encruxio."

That silver energy leapt from Dobby's body via the phoenix wand and coursed through Harry's battered corpse, feeding itself through his system from whatever orifice it could find, sweeping away the blood and the nesting flies in its attempt to integrate itself with his own soul, which of course, was not there precisely, but which had separated and drifted away to wherever souls go, leaving only an echo. Still, an echo was all that was needed, it seemed.

In the wake of Nagini's death, Harry Potter was reborn.


	3. Interlude

Chapter Three

Interlude

July 1st.

Ron awoke to the sound of falling rain.

It was an unseasonably cold day out in the Southern part of England. Deep, dark clouds had rolled in across the sky no less than three days prior, and had immediately began slashing down rivers of water into the collection of valleys that had otherwise been plagued with a persistent drought through the first half of the summer. A wetness now clung in the air that refused to go away, which was fine for the inhabitants of Vermilion, as they had been used to the cold and the damp for a long time. They were just thankful that rain had managed to come at all and that some of their more robust crops would be harvestable in two months time.

"Oh, dear, you're awake again," came the voice of a middle-aged woman named Cathy.

Ron just let out a guttural moan in response and blinked wearily.

"That's fine, dear. You don't move a muscle. Let me bring you some tea."

"Wha-?" Ron managed, his brain slowly piecing together what little he could remember about the last few days, or, more importantly, his life. "What? Where am I?" He ignored the sharp pains that were shooting up his arms and back and front and neck and well, just about everywhere, as he struggled to sit up on the cot that he found himself on.

Groggily, he peered about in the gloom, the shadows held at bay by a single flickering oil lamp. "Huh," he said, tapping his finger on the rough fabric of the duvet. Strangely enough, he couldn't manage to comprehend his surroundings, or put it to any memory he had. That may have been because he had never seen the place before, or it may have been because he had lost most of his memories, the only few remaining flashing by his mind's eye and forming an indistinct collage of images, none of which he could discern.

"Here, drink this," said Cathy, and there was a motherly quality in the tone of his voice that he recognized implicitly, and so he complied without question. The tea was hot and soothing, he found, and it helped warm his insides and take the edge off the pain that raked over his entire body. For the first time since he awoke, Ron glanced down at his form. From the parts that were not covered by cloth, like his arms, he could make out long tracks of scars, that looked as though they were made with some sort of rough object. Superimposed on them were heavy burns that went straight past his arms and appeared to continue under his shirt. From the pain in his torso, he guessed things were not much better there, though he supposed he should be thankful to have all his limbs and to be simply alive. Funny, though, he thought, contemplating his wounds. They don't really concern me all that much. Ron briefly wondered if he was accident prone, or if there was something sinister about his past that he wasn't quite managing to remember. He suspected with the same clinical detachment that seemed to have stolen over him that it was in fact the latter. Again, he didn't feel terribly bothered by it, though he wondered whether he should be worried about possible future attacks.

Don't concern yourself with it now, he told himself. There's little you can do and there are more pressing matters to attend to. Prioritize, old chap. That's the ticket. Prioritize.

Cathy had been chatting haplessly away about chickens, as best as Ron could tell, for the moment he turned his attention to her, he heard something about old Bathsheba having to cut off their heads. It made Ron instantly think muggle, which, after sweeping the room with his gaze, he felt was a fair assumption.

Wait, muggle?

Ron tried to latch onto that concept, but, just as before, the memories that normally associated themselves with concepts flitted about at the edge of his mind, always managing to tickle his consciousness, and to elude it at the same time.

"In a bad shape, you were," Cathy was saying as she fixed up a meal of stew. "Don't know how a poor boy like you could have survived with all them wounds, but, hail Mary, mother of God, you did. Like a miracle, it was."

Ron listened only half-heartedly to Cathy, as she wasn't telling him anything useful. He could see for himself that his wounds were serious, and he could see for himself that he was still alive. Still, from the way she spoke, he gathered that she didn't actually know him. Ron wasn't sure what to make of that little fact. Where was he? Who was he with? What happened to him? all these questions swam around his befuddled mind, refusing to be answered and refusing to go away.

As Ron set his now half-empty cup of tea down, he chanced another glance at his scars and noticed that blisters were healing on his fingers too, though, for some reason, he couldn't really feel them. Whatever happened to me, he decided firmly, it wasn't pretty. And, well, if I never go back there, well, so be it. While Ron couldn't say he was happy with having memory loss, he could also say that it wasn't the worst thing in the world. He knew he was a smart enough guy; smart enough to get by, at any rate, and that's all he needed, really. Somehow, he also knew that poverty wasn't a new thing for him.

With that decision made, Ron dissolved any forming anxieties regarding his murky past and resolved to start fresh, with a new life, to begin learning, and to adopt what a philosopher would have described as Zen Buddhist principles.

In time, Ron would become a vegetarian.

It seemed that Ronald Weasley was not alone in his process of transformation.

"Oh, fuck me harder," Hermione cried, clutching at Griffin's sweaty backside with her own sweaty hands. Their thighs slapped together wetly as they fucked. Griffin complied by pushing down harder so that his legs pressed into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Hermione just responded by digging her fingers into his skin and squeezing her eyes shut as she waited for the continued discharge of syrupy fluids from her body to give way to the convulsions of an orgasm, which, inevitably, they did.

Hermione threw her head back down against the Zabinis' Persian carpet, her bushy brown hair matted with the warm blood that had spilt out of the Zabini patriarch's throat just moments ago. Sighing contentedly, she glanced over to one side and saw a stray eyeball floating idly in the coagulating pool of blood that she was now bathed in.

"Pure blood, indeed," she sighed, licking some of it off Griffin's wet chest. "Utterly delightful, isn't it, sweetheart?"

"Mmm," Griffin responded, rolling off her body and slapping his backside down on a gaggle of ganglia that sloshed about.

Hermione just stretched her arms and legs and gazed up unseeingly at the stone ceiling. So much had changed with Griffin's arrival into her life. She felt as though her eyes had finally been opened, as though the things that she had been looking for all her life, that place of belonging, that core of knowledge that would help her make sense of the world, it was all here, in the dark spaces of her own mind. It was the freedom from morality. Devolving into a post-sex contemplative mood, she pondered aloud, "There's no such thing as right and wrong. There is only power and those too weak to seek it." Hermione didn't think it was a terribly profound thing to say, exactly, though she felt it was a kernel of wisdom that was very important. So lost in her thoughts, she didn't see Griffin look askance in her direction, his mouth working soundlessly. Finally, he turned his gaze from her to stare up at the ceiling also, and said, "You're my hero, do you know that?"

Hermione just smiled beatifically in his direction, before rolling onto her side and running her blood-crusted fingers down his torso where they came upon his flaccid penis. She massaged it lightly until it grew hard and said, "Yeah, I know. Fuck me again, and then let's see about cutting you loose from your bonds, hmm?"

Griffin just grinned back at her and then clasped the soft flesh of her clit in his fingers while running his tongue down her neck. "With pleasure."

It would be an understatement to say that Hermione was a pretty smart girl, just as it would be an understatement to say that Tom Marvolo Riddle was a dark wizard. Alone, each of them were terrifying in their own right. Both of them had a thirst for learning, sharp, logically ordered minds with photographic memories, strong magic, an aptitude for picking up complicated spellwork, and both of them, when left alone, would surpass their peers in every endeavour, making leaps in arithmancy hand over fist. It was the reason a penniless, orphaned half-blood rose to the top of a pureblood hierarchy, and it was the reason why the golden trio had survived as long as they had. That was why it was distinctly unnerving to both the magical and muggle florae that lived around Zabini manor when the horcrux named Griffin and the mudblood named Hermione Granger began executing a ritual never before having existed; a ritual so dangerous, and which violated some of the most intrinsic boundaries of the soul, a ritual not unlike that of the horcrux, that the fabric of life itself shifted uneasily as they performed it.

The sun was setting now, and the parlor room stank of decomposing human innards, sex and maple syrup. "Bring the chalice," Hermione said in the still air, golden light lighting her hair to the colour of flames. Griffin complied and, after observing Hermione nodding her head for him to continue, grabbed it in both hands and drank greedily. Hermione, still watching Griffin, whose skin had turned chalk white, lifted her own goblet and drank from it. Immediately, she felt the almost cruel, violent twists of tortured blood that shrieked right down to her very being worm its way through her body, filling in the dark spaces, making her soul come alive.

"This is the way things are supposed to be," she murmured, though for whose benefit neither knew.

After letting the Blood of Tortured Souls potion do its thing, they both raised their left hands and slashed down deep cuts along their wrists so that their blood poured out in easy streamlets. Hermione formed a pentagram, upon the completion of which, five candles came alive, seemingly of their own volition. Simultaneously, Griffin used his freshly spilling blood to form the sign for infinity, which was nestled comfortably within the dark talisman. Soon they would be able to be together for real. Soon, they would give Griffin a real body, one whose existence did not depend on the whims of the Dark Lord and which was not tied to a mysterious object. And, more importantly, they would intertwine their souls with one another, effectively using each other as a horcrux vessel and ensuring their continued existence. It was a thing never before done, mostly because power was not something easily shared between dark witches and wizards, and because it was just really hard to pull off.

When it was complete, they both squealed girlishly in unison, Griffin briefly frowning at the sound that came out of his mouth as he absently twirled Hermione in the air and brushed her hair, which had taken on subtle changes. No longer was she plagued by a persistent bushiness, which, thankfully, never need be mentioned again. Also, her once brown eyes now transformed to that fathomless black like those of Griffin's.

"There's really only one thing left to do," Griffin said, gazing down at his life mate. "We need to kill the Dark Lord."

Hermione smiled wickedly. "And Potter. Can't have either of those two ruin our plans, and it is most assuredly the case that they will work relentlessly against us."

"I thought you said the boy was of no consequence?" "Griffin asked, half-suspicious and half-puzzled.

Hermione shrugged. "He's not, but then again, you can never be too careful. The pair of them are tied together by prophecy. It's more about putting a nice clean end to the whole Voldemort era and starting fresh. Soon, we will build a utopia. We will forge a new wizarding world out of the ashes of ruin that we will bring to the doorsteps of every pureblooded witch and wizard in this country."

"Yes," Griffin enthused, making a fist as though he were clutching at a nearby snitch. "Soon, it will all be ours."

Both of them laughed merrily before apparating away.


	4. The Dobbstrosity

Chapter Four

The Dobbstrosity

It is a truth, universally assumed, that whenever Dobby tries to save Harry Potter's life, things never go according to plan.

Harry let out a long, suffering groan as his mind moved away from that peaceful oblivion and towards the fuzzy light that would eventually resolve itself into a crisp, summer sunset.

"Grr-bahh?" he gurgled throatily. A wad of coagulated blood-mucus mixture was expelled from his mouth as he tried to speak. Seconds ticked by as Harry's already frazzled nerves tried to reconnect to one another, misaligned synapses reorienting themselves as the familiar magic of a soul revitalized him with concurrent waves of life-giving energy. As he lay there, his toes and fingers still tingling from the unprecedented magic that had flowed through them in those brief hours of duelling Nagini, Harry tried to draw the mess of his memories back to him in a coherent way. After a minute, he felt the barriers that were keeping him from his life crack and fizzle and, in a snap, the events of his life, the experiences that made him who he was crashed over his consciousness like a tidal wave, and, more than anything, he was relieved. If there was one thing Harry Potter hated, it was not being in control of his own mind. Lord Voldemort had taught him that lesson rather clearly during his fifth year.

The thing that baffled him, however, was that it wasn't just his own memories he was seeing, or, at least, he was pretty sure that there was a bunch that wasn't his own. He couldn't quite tell, because of his disoriented state, and because he couldn't drum up a good response to the question, "Well, whose are they, then?"

Still, Harry was pretty sure he'd never seen the Malfoy drawing room, and certainly he'd never seen it from the vantage point of being two feet off the ground. And how do I even know that that's Malfoy's drawing room? he wondered.

Despite Harry not being the sharpest tool in the shed, he was able to piece together the strange collection of memories - is that the Hogwarts kitchen? he wondered idly - and his recent brush with death, and come to one resounding conclusion that made him want to bash his head against a concrete wall: Dobby. What. The. Fuck.

Harry picked his still mutilated corpse of a body off the ground and gazed about dejectedly as the golden light of sunset turned the surface of the lake into a crimson sheen and which forged a golden halo around the castle. Like sunshine blossoming out of a lake of blood.

It became quickly obvious to Harry that things were different now. Even leaving the copious memories of frying chips in lard aside, which were images he was certain he could do without, there were other differences. He wasn't entirely certain, but he thought he might have lost an inch or two in height. He instinctively wrinkled his nose at that thought, as though the idea itself was too putrid to contemplate. Like I wasn't bloody short enough to begin with, thanks to that whole, pesky malnutrition business during my precious childhood. Never mind that, another part of him ordered. Focus on the rest of it. Like, why is everything around here shimmering?

Everywhere that Harry looked, he could make out what he could only describe as a gentle swarm of Technicolor locusts winking in and out of existence, like television static. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that Dobby-esque part of him, he knew that what he was seeing was magic. It swarmed and meandered, ducked and wove about, shimmied and jigged and flew in all directions, exploding and imploding in a perpetual state of dynamic equilibrium. Still, Harry did not want to admit to this fact, for it would confirm a niggling little suspicion that he was not quite prepared to face. but when he turned to face the imposing sight of Hogwarts looming like a mountain and casting deep shadows across the Forbidden Forest, he could no longer deny it. The only place he ever called home, with its familiar twinkling lights, turrets and towers, that place was no more. Instead, there stood what he could only describe as an epicentrically moving swirl of diamonds all orbiting around a nest of prisms that sparkled benignly at him. Harry's mouth, understandably, was wide open. "Huh," he said, dazed by the awesome sight of Hogwarts. "Huh."

Only barely aware he was doing it, Harry lifted one hand, palm up, and drew together a pool of magic that puddled like mercury in his palm. He turned his attention to it, still dumbfounded, and then, with a practised flicking motion, sent the magic spraying out across the mess of blood and guts in order to vanish it. While the human part of him was surprised, the elf part of him knew that this was the way it was supposed to be.

Harry couldn't help but grin.

For the first time, he felt magic. He felt it pulsing inside him, and he felt it all around, like he was finally tuned in to the right radio station. And for the first time, Harry's startlingly green eyes twinkled.

Booyah.

There were a lot of things that needed doing in the wizarding world, because there was seriously way too much chaos floating around. First of all, honest, hard-working types like Stan Shunpike were unjustly imprisoned in the most feared wizarding prison on the isles. Secondly, Hogwarts was in serious need of an overhaul. With Dumbledore's death, it lacked the visionary leadership that would continue to drive it into the twenty-first century.

But, most of all, the one thing that needed to be done was to kill Harry Potter.

Lord Voldemort curled his lips in disgust at the Huffelpuff cup, whose shattered remains were spread about his private quarters. Amidst its shards also lay the shards of the mysterious object to which young little Griffin had been tied. Whatever connection his horcruxes had had to these objects, and thus, by extension had had to him were now gone. He didn't know why precisely, nor did he need to. All he needed to know was that they were sent after Harry Potter and now they were as good as gone. Lord Voldemort still couldn't even begin to fathom how the little twerp had managed to destroy two of his horcruxes. It was, of course, a little twist of irony that, out of everything, the destruction of those two specific horcruxes had nothing to do with Harry at all. Raven had simply been vapourized by the same counter-charm that Lily had used to save Harry's life back in 1981, and Griffin had just found a new host for his own soul fragment. Voldemort, of course, did not know this, nor would he be privilege to that information quite so soon.

The only horcrux that remained, or, more precisely phrased, that Voldemort hoped remained, was Nagini. The vessel, after all, had been sent out with the horcrux itself. He wasn't too worried about her, since she was by far the most powerful of them and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She had proven that on many occasions.

Ah, well, no matter. He neither knew where she was nor when she was planning to return. He simply did not want to think of the possibility that she had been killed, for the ramifications of that situation were too nauseating to contemplate. Still, a voice in the back of his mind, one which no skill at occlumancy could quell, taunted mercilessly, You gambled and you lost, dude. Sucks to be you.

Voldemort retrained his focus on the present and on preparing his next move. It did not do to dwell on your fears, he knew. You just acknowledge them and move on. Voldemort checked himself in the mirror and enjoyed the feel of his magic roiling beneath the surface of his skin before he strode from his private quarters and down the hall of his manor. The occasional dementor roamed the hall, but he took no notice of them. There was not enough human left in him to feel their presence, and his magical aura intuitively kept condensation from forming on his clothes and skin from the chill of their presence.

Voldemort entered what could only be described as a wizarding boardroom. At the center there was a long, black, rectangular table, around which several leather swivel chairs were arranged. Magical viewscreens and maps adorned the walls and at the head of the table was a particularly ornate chair, that could be regarded as a modest throne. Voldemort sat here and presided over his soldiers. At this time, only two were present.

"Severus, Bella," Voldemort said, acknowledging their presence.

"My Lord," they said in unison, bowing their heads deferentially for a brief moment and never taking their eyes off their lord.

Voldemort ploughed on ahead, intent on having them moving as quickly as possible. "I am prepared to turn my sights on the Potter boy." Voldemort had to control his impulse to call his enemy a brat. He had underestimated him too many times, and, with an unknown prophecy in the balance, he had decided that it was time to begin treating Harry Potter like a true adversary. I will not be tricked again, he affirmed silently as he stared at his top lieutenants. "You two I trust above all others," he said solemnly, "and I expect that in this upcoming endeavour, you will operate with the greatest care and perform to your most exigent standards."

"Of course, my lord," they both murmured. Bella's eyes continued to shine with that glint of insanity. Perhaps she is not the best suited for this task, Voldemort mused. No matter, I trust her, and her allegiance is more important to me than competence. Competence is why I have Severus there.

"Observe the Potter boy at his home. Do not be seen. You need not spend long there. Ascertain the thrust of his activities, the state of affairs, etc. Then return immediately and notify me."

Bella nodded, but Severus remained stoic and instead asked a question. "And if he is not there, my lord?"

Voldemort considered this possibility. Could the boy have been relocated? It made little sense since the blood wards that insulated him from attack at his muggle aunt's place would remain intact until his age of majority. Finally, he said, "I trust your discretion in this matter. Feel free to broaden your field of observation, if the situation calls for it. I want to know what Potter is doing and what his routine is. Do not, under any circumstances, be seen." Voldemort levelled a strict gaze at Bella and then turned to Snape and silently legilimanced a single command to him, to which Snape only gave a slight nod of the head. The command was: Keep her in line.

With that out of the way, both his soldiers swept out of their master's lair.

"What in the world were you doing!" Minerva McGonagall exclaimed, pacing back and forth in her office. Her cheeks were stained red from all the flushing she was doing, and strands of her grey hair were discombobulatingly struggling their way out of her otherwise tight and impeccable chignon.

Harry meanwhile, was sitting casually in a poofy leather armchair he just conjured, and which he did wandlessly to boot. Not twenty minutes ago, he had been found grinning like a madman and doing a little jig next to Nagini's corpse on the edge of the lake. Apparently she had spotted him on her way to the castle from Hogsmeade and had immediately rushed over to investigate, only to discover that, while he had vanished the gore on the ground, he himself still looked like death warmed over and was standing not ten feet from an equally battered corpse. A corpse with red eyes, no less.

"Er, killing Voldemort?" Harry said, not quite sure if that were the right answer.

"Killing V-v- You-Know-Who!" she spluttered. "Oh sure, that clears everything up, now doesn't it?"

Harry just shrugged, which sent McGonagall into another furious round of pacing.

Harry wasn't sure whether to be concerned or amused. "You know," he said in a conversational tone, "stress is the number two cause of heart disease."

At Harry's words, the Headmistress seemed to collapse in on herself. She flopped down tiredly in her chair and stared up at the ceiling as she said, "What in the world am I going to do with you, Potter? I can only be thankful that Dumbledore had the sense not to make you a prefect."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked incredulously. "I'd've been a great prefect!"

McGonagall just gave him a look as if to say, "What drugs have you been snorting?"

Harry, in response, just slumped in his chair, equally defeated and mumbled something about being better than Ron, at least.

McGonagall heard this and snapped to attention. "Surely, you're aware that the Weasley home was attacked, were you not?"

Harry just shook his head. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear news that would put him on yet another emotional roller coaster, but then again, at least in his present state he couldn't actually muster up the energy to care.

McGonagall just went on as though she didn't notice Harry's lack of reaction. "Another shade of You-Know-Who attacked the Burrow, just like the one that attacked Miss Genevra Weasley in your second year."

Harry's head snapped up at this statement, and he narrowed his eyes and searched his old Transfiguration Professor's expression for any hint of a lie. "What happened?" he asked in a soft, sibilant hiss, despite the fact that there were no s-sounds in his question.

Minerva shook off the unease at the commanding tone in Harry's voice and answered in her most sympathetic voice, "The shade wanted to kill Ronald Weasley. It was supposed to be a message for you. Molly too was fatally wounded."

The Headmistress's words were like a blow to his head. "Ron?" Harry asked wonderingly, not quite able to believe that one of his oldest friends was now dead.

Minerva pursed her lips, and pressed onwards. "I'm sorry, but there's more. It appears that Miss Granger was also attacked."

It seemed that Minerva need not have said anymore, because Harry stood fast and hard, his conjured squashy leather armchair exploding in a fit of fabric behind him. "So I'm alone then," Harry said with finality. The utter calm with which he uttered those words left Minerva speechless for a moment, before she managed to compose herself.

"You are not alone, Mr. Potter," she said in her strictest voice. "The entire Order is behind you. There are over a dozen fully qualified witches and wizards prepared to put their lives on the line for you - to support you in whatever endeavours you have. You just need to let us in."

Harry did not respond, instead staring off into the distance, to a point somewhere at infinity, memories of the infamous golden trio flashing before his mind's eye. In his own way, he was laying to rest his dearest friends.

Minerva seemed to think that Harry was acquiescing to her quasi-commands about informing the Order, because she went on, "There's a meeting at headquarters tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. I'll expect you there at precisely that time so you may divulge the specifics regarding anything relevant that Albus had told you. that way, the Order will be in a prime position to execute any plans against the dark forces. After that, we will put you in hiding. With this whole mess at Privet Drive and with a warrant out for your arrest, you're hardly in a position to be doing anything productive whatsoever and therefore we shall simply sequester you away in a secret location. We've even gotten many of the Order members to agree to provide you private tutelage in magical defense-"

Harry was not really listening to her. He had tuned her out before she had started speaking, in fact. Doesn't the silly bint know that I just lost my friends? he mused. He focused his mind back on his thoughts about the present. So the Dark Lord sent a horcrux after each of us, did he? Harry thought bitterly. Probably figured I was nothing without my friends. No doubt Snape would have told him that. It was only a bonus that Hermione was a muggle-born. I wonder if her parents are okay. Not that Harry had any intention of seeing them. They were muggles and they were dentists, and, more importantly, he sucked when it came to consoling people, and even more so when he had a hand in the misery, however tangential his involvement happened to be.

Well, Harry thought. I may not be able to kill the fucker just yet - not without getting his horcruxes out of the way first, but I can certainly dispossess his ass and send him back to fucking Albania. That'll teach him a Goddamned lesson he ain't soon to forget.

With that same reckless stupidity that drove him to collapse the wards at Privet Drive, Harry strode out of the office intent on annihilating his mortal foe. Maybe if I get him talking, he'll let something slip about the horcruxes, Harry thought. After all, with Hermione dead, he had a snowball's chance in hell of finding the little bastards. It took Dumbledore a year to find the entrance to the cave, and even with his superlative magical prowess and experience, he still ended up halfway dead from some God awful potion that Harry was sure he was not prepared to drink under any circumstances.

Harry never even noticed that he unconsciously put McGonagall under a full body bind, nor did he notice that, as his mind geared up for war, he unconsciously transfigured his clothes. His shirt became a snug-fitting bulletproof polyester with a featherlight charm on it. Similarly, his pants turned midnight black, and were both flexible and snug-fitting. A robe sprouted from his shoulders downward and curled around his body protectively, billowing ominously in a way that would have made Snape most envious. And, finally, his shoes transformed into steel-toed combat boots. Mirrored sunglasses curled around his eyes as he stepped out into the darkness, and a silencing charm pooled around his clothes and boots, transforming him into a silent, walking predator. His scar disappeared from view, and his hair shortened to a clean, tight cut.

Harry had no clue where Lord Voldemort was hiding, but he reckoned he didn't need to. He had the most detailed and comprehensive understanding of Malfoy Manor bar none. Not even the Malfoy patriarch could match his knowledge on the subject, and it was all thanks to a mildly retarded elf. That would be where he would begin his search for the Dark Lord.

It did not take long for Harry to maneuver his way through the Malfoy wards, and to begin the process of getting lost in the Malfoy estate. If he had ever held any doubts regarding the wealth of his schoolyard nemesis, he quelled them as he walked from one enormous, opulent room to the next. Lucius Malfoy's private study had dragon heads mounted on one wall, with the names of Malfoys and dates inscribed on plaques underneath. Harry could only assume that these were the people who killed the dragons and the dates they did it. Harry wasn't sure whether to be impressed or disgusted. He knew that killing dragons was no easy task, and knew it would have taken a powerful wizard to accomplish the feat. However, he also suspected that the Malfoys played dirty and only involved themselves enough to only barely meet the definition of hunting and killing the dragons in question. He wouldn't have been surprised if the dragons were handicapped in some way, such as being poisoned or chained down or possibly just wounded. Still, he noticed that Lucius wasn't actually acknowledged so he couldn't say for sure. He was confident that Lucius couldn't take on a dragon, but couldn't say one way or the other for his ancestors.

Despite the prevailing opulence from room to room, Harry got the distinct impression that Malfoy manor was a rather cold place. Crystals, as pretty as they were, were hardly fun to play with.

Not a single portrait greeted him, though many kept their beady little grey eyes on him as he passed by. He thought he heard one of them mutter, "Potter hair," but couldn't be sure. It hardly made sense anyway, since he had taken a moment to cut the ugly mop off his head.

Harry's newfound sight gave him special insight into the Malfoy's home. He knew, for example, that there was very little that was transfigured or conjured. Why, he didn't know. Transfigured and conjured objects, when done properly, were no different than their pre-existing counterparts. There was probably some archaic wizarding custom that dictated that conjured items were for the peasantry. Harry didn't actually care all that much. He was just thankful he knew how to avoid magical objects, as, he was quickly discovering that, where there was magic, there were deadly traps of all kinds. The Malfoys were a paranoid lot. Why booby-trap something in your own home?

Eventually, Harry came upon the infamous drawing room, with the secret trap door underneath the carpeting. As much as he was curious to investigate that particular repository of dark arts material, he chose instead to move on in search of his quarry. Surely the ice queen or her ferret of a son had to be somewhere in the place. It would be just my luck to miss them, he bemoaned, coming to a dead end at the end of a particularly long hall. I wonder if I can conjure something toxic, he mused, considering the possibility of just blowing the entire estate up. Like conjuring propane. However, as he pondered that question, it occurred to him that he didn't really need to conjure propane or some other flammable hydrocarbon at all. He could just conjure oxygen, which he did naturally as part of the bubblehead charm. Pure oxygen was probably one of the most flammable substances on Earth.

Harry grinned.

"I will ask you again," said Harry in what was quickly becoming known as his, 'I'm a clinical psychopath' voice. "Where is Voldemort."

"Eat shit, Potter," wheezed Draco Malfoy.

The kid's got balls, Harry thought. I'll give him that. Outwardly, Harry only communicated one phrase, "Suit yourself."

Draco's eyes widened only for a fraction of a second as a buzz saw magically materialized in Harry's hand. More disturbing was the fact that it was spinning really fast and emitting the high pitched buzzing sound for which it was named, and it was doing this all while resting comfortably in the palm of Harry's hand. Harry just smiled a really insincere smile, before proceeding to lop off another one of Draco's fingers. This one was the index finger. As the whirring blade grated against the bone in Malfoy's finger, blood spurted out and the pitch of the saw's buzzing dropped a few semitones as it was forced to slow down to make its way through the bone.

"GODDAMN, POTTER!" Draco shrieked as his second finger was lopped off. "YOU'RE A FUCKING NUTJOB!"

When the finger was gone and Harry had cauterized the wound, he simply levelled a hard gaze at his former classmate. It galled Harry to no end to hear the boy-turned-Death-Eater accuse him of being a nutjob when everyone he ever cared about was brutally murdered. It also made Harry wonder if maybe he had gone a little crazy and if maybe part of being crazy meant that he just didn't care one way or another.

"You seem to be under the serious misapprehension that you're going to survive this encounter either way," Harry said, still grinning and bringing the bloody saw up to Draco's face. "It makes no difference whether you tell me where he is or not. I'll kill you regardless. The only question is, how painful do you intend to make your last moments on this Earth?"

Harry decided that, as a matter of courtesy, he would give Draco Malfoy a good minute to ponder his words. He sincerely hoped that the silly boy would take the hint and give up the crucial information that would aid Harry in seeking revenge upon his tormentor. Draco spent that minute of reprieve, two fingers short of a full set, staring hard at Harry's eyes. One could say he was searching for truth, or God or madness, it didn't matter. In the end, Draco Malfoy bit his lip, a nervous habit Harry had never seen Draco do before. "I can't," he said finally. "Whatever you do to me, the Dark Lord will do ten times worse."

Harry cocked an eyebrow, before parroting Nagini's words at the blond aristocrat. "I would hardly waste my time torturing you, despite what you might think. I gain little pleasure from it. But I will nevertheless. Moreover, I can't understand why this relatively simple concept isn't working its way through your moronic brain. There is nothing left for you on this Earth, Draco. There is nothing left for you anywhere. In thirty minutes, you'll be dead, regardless. Nothing can change that now. Yesterday, or the day before, I might have spared your life. Hell, the idea of killing in cold blood probably would have appalled me. One could say that you and I were the same in that respect." At this last phrase, Draco just looked puzzled, and Harry glanced off to let himself disappear in a whirl of memories, that fateful scene atop the Astronomy Tower playing itself out in his mind's eye. He still remembered the colour fading from Dumbledore's cheeks, his eyes slowly losing focus, his body slumping to the ground, and his gentle, firm voice piercing the still air, broken only by the muffled sounds of distant spellfire. Harry shook himself and returned to the present to continue his monologue. It does not do to dwell on the past, either, he thought. I wish you had taught me that one, Albus.

"But now, Draco - now things have changed." Harry vanished the buzz saw and leaned forward to look into the boy's pale face. "You know, everyone used to call me the Boy-Who-Lived. It's funny, isn't it? Raised by muggles, I was totally clueless about what that meant, and even after I got here, I still couldn't wrap my mind around it. I knew exactly who I was; I've known it all these years, and I can safely say that never did the import of that moniker penetrate my own sense of self. There was a time when I hated Albus Dumbledore for sticking me with my aunt and uncle. I wondered why it was that I didn't deserve love as a childhood, why it was that me being forged into a weapon was so Goddamned important to a man who thought that death is the next great adventure. But now death is all around me. Even my own, if you can believe it. I smell it on me now. I wear it like a cloak, and it comforts me. I understand now that I never could have been the Boy-Who-Lived. Not if I wanted to grow up to be the Chosen One. In all my dealings with the Dark Lord, I can safely say that there's at least one thing he got right. I could never have been the Boy-Who-Lived, because I died that Halloween night in 1981. I've just been on borrowed time. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Where is Lord Voldemort?"

Harry could already see, however, that his words were having very little effect on Draco. Maybe that was because the pain of his two lost fingers was dulling his reasoning abilities, or maybe it was because Draco wasn't all that smart. Harry didn't know and didn't care. "I'm sorry," Draco replied. "Do what you must."

For a spoiled rich kid, Draco managed to hold up against the pain remarkably well. But in the end, he shrieked and cried and begged for mercy, just like everyone else. Just as Harry had promised, thirty minutes after the start of Draco's torture, Harry killed him with a clean, swift, guillotine-style decapitation, whereupon his mutilated, eyeless head rolled off the table and into the corner of the room. The head landed right-side-up and faced the center of the room, its mouth puckered into a silent scream, where one could see the bloodied flaps of gums where his teeth should have been.

This was the scene that Narcissa Malfoy came home to, after attending a pureblood soiree with some of her Death Eater associates. Being a woman of high class and quality upbringing, she was not the type to swear. With a sweeping glance and an upturned nose, she assessed the mess that her home had become. Heavy spellfire, exploded ornaments, heirlooms and shredded furniture littered the various rooms. Narcissa drew her wand and proceeded to investigate each room, one by one, until she arrived at the drawing room, where she found her son's mutilated corpse next to the hearth.

'Draco!" she exclaimed, her icy facade cracking as she ran to her son to gaze upon his body with horror. Oh, Merlin, she silently cried. Not Draco.

The extent of the carnage made her think that the only person who could have done such a thing was either insane or a dark artist. With that in mind, she went to the fireplace and raised her wand to light it. She glanced irritably at the pools of what looked like soapy water sloshing about her ankles, and she cursed not for the first time Harry Potter for robbing her of her house elf.

"Incendio,' she said. Narcissa only had a fraction of a second for her eyes to widen as the enormous fireball that exploded out of her fireplace engulfed her and the entire manor, as the combined twenty tonnes of liquid oxygen and gaseous hydrogen were set ablaze.

Malfoy manor, along with the surrounding gardens, the topiary, fences, gates and other protections transformed into a fifty foot high raging inferno. And out of it rose a dark gold skull with a bronze snake coming out of its mouth.

The next morning found Harry picking listlessly at a fruit salad. One of the downsides, he soon discovered, to being half elf, was that he didn't really need to eat. His own magic seemed to revitalize him, as though it was just conjuring the nutrients right inside of his body. He supposed that made sense, anyway, since wizards could conjure real food. Magic was a beautiful thing. It wasn't really the whole not having to eat thing that was depressing him, nor was it the gruesome murder and destruction of Malfoy manor, for which he was mostly responsible. He was surprised, actually, at how little the sight of gore disgusted him. He supposed that, more than anything, he was just a little bit off-balance by the radical turns his life had made. He was probably still coming off a massive adrenalin rush, as well.

What you need, monsieur, he thought, is some normalcy. A return to routine. A familiar face.

The only problem was, Harry wasn't entirely sure where to go to get that. The people he normally would have turned to - Ron and Hermione - were no longer there, and without Ron present, Harry suspected that seeing the Weasleys would have just been awkward. Despite knowing that it was rather cowardly of him to avoid the Weasleys when they probably could have done with his support, Harry still couldn't manage to make the simple apparation trip to the Burrow, or to Grimmauld Place, where they were most likely held up.

Currently, Harry was sitting in a muggle cafe not far from the Leaky Cauldron. Rather stupidly, he had wandered into Diagon Alley about an hour ago, and it took all of two minutes for aurors to recognize him and attempt to subdue him with lethal force. Somehow, they had managed to spot his scar, despite the glamour that he had put on it the day before - a fact that reminded him he was still woefully underschooled in charms. It wasn't all bad though. Having a chance to sit in the muggle world, Harry had an opportunity to appreciate the feel of it, the intensity of traffic, of muggle food, establishments, trends, fashions, etc. Despite having existed in both worlds, he was rather ignorant. For one thing, he was dead certain no pureblood would be caught dead in a halter-top. Witches and wizards were far more conservative in their dress than muggles, which wasn't a surprise, since their lifestyle emulated that of the medieval period. They've never really grown out of feudalism, Harry mused, observing a gaggle of giggling girls that were ordering specialty coffees with long, convoluted names.

"Hey," a familiar voice to one side said.

Harry jerked his head to the left and stared up at the smiling face of Dean Thomas.

"Hey," Harry replied, slightly wrong footed from the encounter. He had forgotten that people from the magical world also existed in the muggle, like himself, and that, being so close to the Leaky Cauldron, it was inevitable that he would run across somebody. He supposed he should have been at least thankful that it was a friend and not a foe. "Have a seat," Harry said, gesturing to the gold-painted chrome chair across from him.

"Thanks," Dean said, taking it and setting his venti soy mocha frappaccino on the wobbly table. "How've you been doing?"

At first, Harry shrugged, suddenly not quite sure how to deal with one of his schoolmates on a one-on-one basis. Deciding that he'd screwed up his life enough as it was, Harry decided to just get into it. You wanted normalcy, after all, and you can't get much more normal than Dean Thomas. "Everything's a bloody mess, actually," Harry admitted, giving Dean a wan smile to let him know they didn't have to go into it.

Dean just nodded. "I read about the warrant for your arrest. It's all pretty crazy sounding."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, well, when their golden boy doesn't play by the rules, they get their knickers in a twist."

"Aren't you worried about getting caught?" Dean asked curiously.

"Aren't you worried about being associated with a known nutter?" Harry countered. He then shrugged again. "Trust me when I say that I can take care of myself. Besides, what are they going to do? Kill me?" Harry let out a short, mirthless laugh. He wondered how much of his psychosis was due to the fact that he had died and how much of it was due to the fact that he wasn't quite human anymore.

Dean just nodded. "Right. The papers said you went on a rampage and murdered your relatives, and some school kids." Dean then went on rather hastily to add, "Not that any of us believed it, of course."

Harry just scrutinized Dean for a moment before asking, "Who's 'we'?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably for a second before wilting under Harry's piercing gaze. "Some of the DA, you know."

"No, I don't. What's this? Have you guys been corresponding?"

"It's more than that," Dean said. "We've actually been meeting. You know, to practise defense spells."

"Oh," Harry said, nonplussed. His first thought was that he hadn't been invited, either to participate or to teach, and he could tell that Dean was worried he would be offended. Instead, Harry just smiled and said, "Brilliant! Keep up with that. Could save your life, you know." Harry went on to nibble on a slice of peach. Two days ago, he probably would have cared about not having been asked back to the DA, but now, like so much else, it felt as though it belonged to another time. Harry realized right then and there that he was no leader. He never had been, and never wanted to be. He was a soldier. A killer. A nutter and a rebel, but no leader, and he realized that a weight disappeared with that revelation. That's what they wanted out of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was a champion, even if they didn't like what it was he was championing.

"Harry?" Dean asked.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Why do you look like you're trying to inspire a fashion trend for a bad sci-fi trilogy?"

Harry glanced down at his attire, and realized that Dean was right. I could be some kind of reluctant super action hero with stylized kung-fu moves, and people could call me 'The One.' It wouldn't even be that far off the mark.

Harry just grinned. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Only we could do it about myself, and it would be a septalogy. You know, one movie for every year I'm in school. And we could imperius the whole country into liking it."

Dean just shook his head. "You know there'd be the occasional religious zealot that would try to kill you. Nobody likes fads."

"True, true," Harry sighed in a mock-disappointed fashion. "I suppose I'll just have to stick to being moderately wealthy and focus on riding out this whole Dark Lord business."

Just then, Harry caught sight of a dark cloak swishing ominously outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cafe. There was something distinctly familiar about that billow, and, more importantly, Harry thought he saw a distinctive magical shimmer around the figure's arm. He narrowed his eyes and the grin slipped off his face.

"What is it?" Dean asked, suddenly apprehensively glancing about.

"Can you apparate?" Harry asked quietly.

Dean nodded. "Just got my license.

"You'd best be taking off, then."

"What is it?" Dean asked, now glancing around even more conspicuously. Harry couldn't help but scoff at the nervousness in Dean's voice. DA lessons my ass, he thought with just a little bit of leftover spite.

"Death Eaters," Harry continued in that same quiet voice. "At least one. Probably more. Stop glancing around."

Dean did as he was told, and Harry noticed that a stern expression stole over his face. "I'm not leaving you here alone," Dean said fiercely. "I failed you - no - we all failed you in fifth year. I'm not going to fail you now."

Harry wanted to roll his eyes and forcibly apparate Dean to safety, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that he was proud at least, on some level, that people were prepared to fight. Even if they were still young and idealistic. It gave Harry hope that he could fight for more than just revenge - that he could look forward to a brighter dawn.

Harry nodded. "Draw your wand. Be inconspicuous. Can you do wards?" Harry asked.

Dean shook his head. "Only a simple muggle repulsion ward."

"that's more than me," Harry replied. "And that's all we need, really. Use it and get these muggles out of here." Herd them into the back, or out the door, whichever works best."

"Won't that alert the enemy?" Dean asked.

"They already know we're on to them. They're probably waiting for us to take off so they can get us in the back, or maybe they're hoping the place will clear out. They don't want panicked muggles in the way anymore than we do. They'll just be a distraction."

Dean nodded. "Right."

Harry grabbed Dean's wrist just as he was about to cast the ward. "Two things," Harry said quietly, now glancing about himself. He thought he saw a second Death Eater signature, though he couldn't be sure. "Remember you can always apparate to dodge a spell. That'll save your life if you're quick enough. Second, if it's Snape, then you need to be fast with your spells. He can read your mind."

Dean's eyes widened at this statement and he could only nod.

"Shoot first, think later. Always keep moving."

"Understood."

Dean cast the muggle repulsion ward, and soon people were leaving the cafe, half in a daze, some with their wallets still in hand, and others with coffee cups that they didn't seem to quite know what to do with. One guy tripped over a chair and sprayed whipped cream all over himself, but he hardly seemed to notice and instead crawled straight out the front door. There was a fellow with a white cane who was having particular difficulty, and before he managed to get through the front door, he was picked off with a killing curse.

Dean jumped to his feet and was already scanning the empty space where the green light had emanated from. Unlike Harry, he couldn't see magic, and was at a loss. "Disillusionment," he finally said.

"Actually, it's an invisibility cloak," Harry corrected, silently summoning the thing to himself. To his dismay, even as he watched it sail in his direction, he knew that it was his own cloak. And before he could do anything about it, he saw it erupt in a burst of flames, so that it fell uselessly at Harry's feet. From underneath it was now revealed to be none other than Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Hello, little Potter," she cooed, ever so gently. There was something in the sound of her voice that put Harry on edge. It was softer, more dangerous sounding. At first, Harry couldn't place it, until he realized that she sounded more like Severus Snape and less like the insane, arrogant woman he had met at the DOM. She was like a blend of the two.

Harry did a quick check of his surroundings to make sure she didn't have a point guard, and, seeing none, he proceeded to level his wand, which wasn't really a wand at all but a conjured stick of wood. He hardly had time to process the fact that his father's invisibility cloak had been destroyed, because she sent two swift killing curses his way. Dean smartly apparated, while Harry just threw his wand at the incoming spell and simultaneously conjured a dozen bricks over her head.

Bellatrix never even saw them coming, and was bombarded with the lot of them, which collapsed her body to the ground swiftly and neatly. Harry summoned her wand and snapped it over his knee. "Well, that was easy," he said aloud to no one in particular, as he threw the pieces of her now broken wand away. Absently, he lit them on fire, burning them to ash.

"Whoa," Dean said, amazed as he stared at Harry from behind the counter. "That was brilliant. You took out Lestrange, and wandlessly."

Harry shrugged. Two days ago, he would have just been lucky to survive. Now it was child's play. He went up to his Godfather's murderer and hefted one of the bricks right into her face. There was a distinct cracking sound that told him he had cracked her skull. Harry proceeded to bash her head in until it was an unrecognizable mash of bone fragments and brain jelly and ripped up pink flesh.

"Er, Harry?" Dean asked, a tinge of fear and revulsion in his voice.

"Yes, Dean?" Harry asked in his detached, 'I'm a psycho' voice.

"You bashed her face in with a brick."

Harry just looked at Dean as though he were stating the obvious, which, in truth, he was.

"Right," Dean said. "I think I'll just be going now."

"You do that, Dean," Harry replied, as Dean made a swift exit. Harry couldn't help but call after him, "Good luck with the DA!"

Dean was gone, and Harry stood alone in the middle of a muggle cafe, yet another dead body at his feet. He sighed and followed Dean out the door. Where was there to go for him to get his sanity back? Maybe, he thought, maybe I'll take Minnie up on that offer of defense lessons. With that, Harry apparated to Grimmauld Place, or, as close to it as he could get.

The figure of Dean Thomas did not head to the Leaky Cauldron as he told Harry he would. He instead apparated to number four Privet Drive, of all places, and not just any part of number four, but to what used to be considered Dudley's second bedroom. There, he stood to attention before Lord Voldemort.

"Hello, Severus," said Voldemort, who was idly sifting through Harry's belongings, his long, bony white fingers flipping through the pages of Harry's beloved photo album. "What news do you bring?"

Dean Thomas just said, "My Lord, please undo the disguise."

Lord Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow. "My dear, Severus, you and I both know that undoing polyjuice with magic is most... excruciating."

"No more than having to exist as a mudblood," Severus replied evenly.

"Excellent answer, Severus," said Voldemort. With a snap of his fingers, magic coursed around the figure of Dean Thomas, who swiftly transformed back to the tall, gaunt, greasy-haired figure of Severus Snape. "Now, report."

"Of course, my Lord." Severus made the customary bow of deference before his master. "I used the imperius to take control of Hestia Jones. It was fortunate for us that we used polyjuice and not a simple glamour. The boy has learned to discriminate between Death Eaters and regular magical folk. I believe he can sense the Dark Mark. He seemed to spot the Lestrange clone before she entered the establishment."

Voldemort's face remained impassive. In fact, he wasn't even looking at Severus, and was just continuing to flip idly through the pages of Harry's photo album. However, it was a mistake to think that his keen mind was not processing Snape's words.

Snape continued, "there are a number of things to note about the boy that may be a cause for concern. I will describe his mental state afterwards. First, I would like to bring to your attention his dueling skills. His control over simple conjurations and charms, such as the levitation charm have dramatically improved. He intercepted a killing curse with a conjured stick that he was passing off as a wand. He also used wandless magic to guide the stick into the path of the killing curse that Jones sent his way. He then wandlessly conjured a dozen distinct objects directly over Jones's head. It appears he does not require a wand at all, anymore. How this has come to be, I do not know."

"What of his occlumancy?" Voldemort asked.

"Potter's occlumancy skills are still deplorable. They only exist when he feels threatened. He only seems able to construct a simple wall to defend against a surface probe. It is unclear whether he would hold up against a direct assault. His mind was open to me prior to Jones's arrival. I gleaned the following: the boy is responsible for the destruction of Malfoy Manor. He cares little for the Ministry and is not worried at all about the warrant for his arrest. he does not seem to think they can impede him. He is mourning the death of his two friends. He also does not seem to possess any plan of action at the moment. I expect that he will return to the Order for guidance."

"Grimmauld Place?" Voldemort asked.

Severus nodded.

"Have you had occasion to examine the new wards?"

"Bellatrix is doing that as we speak. Without the Fidelius, the place will nevertheless be vulnerable to an assault. It is only a matter of finding their weakness."

"It will not be so easy," Voldemort replied, snapping the photo album shut and throwing it to one side. "the Order is but one problem amongst many. We will always face resistance. That is for certain. Quelling the Order will do little to rectify that overall problem. No, what we need is to take control of the hegemony. That has been our largest obstacle, and it was one which Dumbledore knew acutely. it was the reason he remained at Hogwarts. His ability to influence the minds of future generations empowered him in ways that the Minister of Magic could only dream about. It is why I am so aggrieved that you threw away your position at Hogwarts. Surely Fenra or one of the others atop the tower would have been most able to handle the old man." Voldemort shook his head. "But that is neither here nor there. Come, let us return to headquarters. There is nothing for us here."

"My Lord, do you not intend to set at least one trap in his bedroom?" Severus asked, lowering his head to make the question as deferential as possible.

"No, there is simply no point. The boy can sense magic. He will not be fooled. He can sense more than the Dark Mark. You neglected to mention that he identified her use of the invisibility cloak even after you sought to mislead him."

"My apologies, my Lord," Severus said, but Voldemort just waved his words away.

"There is no need for that." Voldemort paused and stroked his chin in contemplation. "The boy has changed. I would not have believed it before that he be capable of this. It is clear now that my familiar has expired, and Potter will most certainly enter into a period of reflection. He will have cocooned himself in the familiar scent of others, and when he emerges, he will be the adversary that he is destined to be. I see now the full content of the prophesy. Nothing short of a duel between him and me will end this. Fate and Magic have conspired against me, Severus. Only after he has become my equal will he be truly vulnerable, just as I will be vulnerable to him. Then we shall see who is the victor. Come. There is much to do."

Severus couldn't say he understood everything the Dark Lord had said, but he understood enough. Sighing inwardly, he wondered not for the first time whether he made a mistake throwing his lot in with the Dark Lord. Yes, catering to the brat's whims had been deeply offensive, but now it seemed that Potter actually had a shot at success. Funny how the tables had turned. Not that it mattered. Severus had no recourse but to stay with the side he had chosen, which, he supposed, was the reason the Dark Lord had become more free with information. Even the Dark Lord knew that it was too late for Severus. You only had one chance at redemption, it seemed.


	5. The Order

Chapter Five

The Order

"We're all going to die," wailed Tonks theatrically.

"Bloody hell," said Fred and George in unison.

"Constant vigilance!"

Fletcher, meanwhile, inconspicuously fled the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and booked the first ticket to Majorca he could get his hands on.

Harry had just finished telling the Order about the existence of the horcruxes, including everything he had learned from Albus Dumbledore. He explained about his intention not to return to Hogwarts, his impending quest, which had been cut short by the arrival of the horcruxes, and the fact that Dumbledore himself had been on death's door the night he was murdered.

"And you say you killed one of them?" McGonagall asked sharply, wanting to confirm the number of Voldemorts remaining.

Harry nodded. "Two, if you include the diary."

"Wow, you really duelled You-Know-Who," Ginny said, wide-eyed and with an indecent amount of awe shining in her brown eyes. "And here I thought you were a goner for sure."

Harry just gave her a wan smile and thanked whatever deity had been doing its thing that he broke up with her when he did.

"So that means that there's the locket, the Huffelpuff cup and the mysterious object," McGonagall mused thoughtfully.

"Well, actually," Harry said, shifting a bit and then pulling out the locket. "Found this puppy here in the house."

Eyes widened even further, if that were possible, while Moody remained invariably stoic, the only indication of his excitement the nervous spinning of his blue eye, which after doing what looked like a little dance, came to rest on the locket.

Moody whistled. "That is one seriously dark object, Potter."

Harry just gave the paranoid ex-auror a beatific smile. "A beauty, ain't she?"

Moody grinned, which was a truly ugly sight.

"How does one destroy it?" Fred asked, his eyes shining with malice, his voice uncharacteristically somber. No doubt they were thinking back to Ron and his fate at the hands of Raven.

Bill silently asked to examine the object, which Harry handed to him.

After several seconds of study, and some gentle tapping with his wand, Bill just frowned. "Yes, I see it's dark. There's a disturbing amount of energy inside it, but there doesn't seem to be much else. A mild confundus charm, and an intertwined Egyptian locking spell. Password protected, no less."

bill handed the locket back to Harry, who took it and hefted it about from one hand to the other. "Yeah, well, I reckon there's not much point to it really. I mean, they weren't really supposed to be found. The diary was a pretty easy kill. All it took was a jab with a pointy object."

"So how then do you do it?" Moody asked again, his eye having returned to its omnidirectional swiveling.

"The same way you destroy any soul," Harry said nonchalantly. "The killing curse."

Silence followed Harry's pronouncement as each individual in the room turned to him and gave him a hard, stern glare.

"What?" he asked innocently, knowing full well the dilemma that presented itself when considering the killing curse.

"You can't just use a curse like that, Potter," Moody explained, almost gently. "To do a thing leaves a mark on the soul. You don't want that. None of us do."

"I saw Shacklebolt use the imperius," Harry countered. "And that's soul magic."

"Aye, we've all done a little bit," explained Moody. "But it's not the same. You can recover from it. You can take counseling, talk to people. Take time off work. There's no returning from the killing curse."

Harry nodded. "I see." And then, to everyone's astonishment, he held out the locket so that it was the center of everyone's attention and then, wandlessly and with little effort, he charged a killing curse in his palm, which hummed and let off an eerie green light as it slowly seeped into the locket, dissolving the soul fragment that existed inside.

Everyone watched, mesmerized and terrified into speechlessness. Seeing the killing curse just sitting in someone's palm like a toy bobble was too much for Tonks, who fled the room in a fit of hysterics. The energy of death, the most lethal and feared energy in the magical world fizzled and crackled as it lay idle in Harry's steady grip. The lights in the room seemed to dim as if shying away from the terrible energy that Harry now wielded with superlative control; an energy whose light matched the colour of his eyes - a fact that was becoming startlingly clear to every inhabitant of the room.

"Harry," McGonagall breathed, her gaze transfixed by the sight of the curse. "Harry."

"That's not possible," Ginny said, still stupidly wide eyed. "Is - is that possible?"

With a silent command, Harry winked the killing curse out of existence, the overhead lights returning to their normal brightness, the feeling of having your very essence being leeched slowly dissipating.

Harry then proceeded to gently place the locket over his neck and tuck it under his shirt. "Two objects left," he said solemnly. "Two objects and then Voldemort himself." The only response he received for his words was a continued silence permeating the entire house, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock located in the drawing room. He suspected that there was very little left to say anyway, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be around when it was said, so, marshalling his Gryffindor courage, Harry did the only thing he could think of. He fled with as much dignity as he could muster, and eventually found himself in Sirius's room - the master bedroom, which was the only one he could be certain was empty. A quick once over with cleaning charms and he was ready to flop into bed and let his mind slip into the sweet and dark world of dreams.

Time passed with little event for Harry. He surprised himself by going ahead with the defense lessons, though, given his altered form, they had to be modified somewhat. There wasn't a single Order member around that could take Harry on in a duel, and it became painfully obvious that increasing the numbers of combatants was a futile attempt at handicapping the Chosen One. He just didn't fight like them anymore. Ironically, he found himself throwing himself deeper into the theory, in part to fine tune his newfound preternatural control over magic, but also to help him understand just what exactly he had become.

Harry supposed he could have just summoned Dobby and asked, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be in the presence of the diminutive elf. There seemed to be something intimate about soul sharing - something ancient like blood magic. Like the magic that saved him on that Halloween night so long ago, and Harry wasn't quite prepared to permit himself to suffer the emotional repercussions of what Dobby had done. Occasionally, he wished he had simply been left for dead; especially when he ran across many of the acute reminders of his two best friends, neither of whom were there to provide the support he so desperately needed.

It had taken only two days for Harry to find himself cornered by Fred and George and Ginny, all of whom wanted answers. He could have just apparated away, but he knew that it would have been the height of cowardice to do so right in front of them, and besides, he needed to maintain a close working relationship with others while he stayed at headquarters. More importantly though, he found he was craving human contact and wanted to at least try to reforge bonds with others - bonds that could take the place of the void that now existed within him.

You wanted your sanity back, he admonished himself. Did you think it would be easy?

"Can you tell me about it?" Harry found himself asking timidly. "About Ron."

Fred and George exchanged a glance while Ginny just stared intently at Harry. The quartet had managed to garner some alone time in the kitchen, where they could speak privately and enjoy a cup of tea.

"Bloke came. Got through the wards. He came for Ron specifically," George spoke, trying to get the facts out as quickly and as painlessly as possible. "He was a tough little bugger, You-Know-Who." George glanced off to the side as his memories took him to a different time and place. "It's funny you know. It all happened so fast, I could hardly keep up. First I heard the alarms, and then we all came rushing into the kitchen - we were playing a game of pick up Quidditch." He shook himself as if to unburden himself of the guilt, before continuing. "The scene we came to was a mess. Ginny was limping and trying to get away from this bloke. Couldn't have been more than twenty-five, I reckon. Before I knew it, there was a stunner coming for us, and, well, you know. We're Weasleys. We've got pretty short tempers, so I pretty much just started unloading with standard defense spells. Reckoned we could overwhelm and break his shield, but it didn't happen. I don't think even a minute passed before we realized that mum was..." George leaned back and it appeared that he wasn't going to say anymore.

Fred silently elected to take up the explanation. "After mum's death, we knew we were pretty much beat. She had thrown herself in the way of a curse that Bill called a nasty bit of magic. It would've surely killed Ron. Nothing we did seemed to get through his shields, and he was adept at reflecting magic back at us. I remember trying to summon a knife in his direction, but he effortlessly took control of it and sent it right back at me, and with enough force that I barely had time to get out of the way. It actually slashed my bicep."

"It was all I could do to keep standing," Ginny added softly, glancing down. "He was so... powerful. And skilled."

"It didn't help that he could basically ignore half our spells."

"Stunners didn't work at all."

Harry nodded. He had had the same experience with Nagini.

A moment of silence descended upon them, where the Weasleys gave Harry a moment to digest their words, before they began expecting him to open up. He wasn't exactly sure where to start. It all sounded so miraculous that he survived, except, of course, he realized that he in fact had not survived.

"I died," Harry blurted out suddenly, though he found he wasn't sure where to go with that line of thought. he glanced down at his mug as if to divine the answers from it. He was thankful that none of the Weasleys were sporting incredulous looks or that they were prodding him to hurry up. Eventually, he said, "I watched Nagini kill an Order member one night." He shook his head. "I was furious, I think. and tired. I think I realized then that I had little choice but to fight. I'd spent ten days trying to learn advanced magic so I'd become some kind of great fighter, but I found that it just wasn't happening. No amount of time was going to save me, so I figured I'd just go out and meet my fate. I collapsed the wards. After that, the battle started. It was just me and him. Another shade, only it was fused with Voldemort's familiar. We played some apparation tag. It wasn't long before Nagini got the better of me, and I had to basically flee. She was a superior dueller by far, but I got lucky at one point and managed to destroy her wand. That evened out the score a bit, even though I was sporting a stab wound to the stomach and a broken leg. She was about to kill me when I had a spurt of accidental magic that apparated me to the elementary school roof. We fought some more, and a couple of kids got - well, I think muggles call it collateral damage. From there, I managed to get the upper hand, sort of, but Nagini apparated. I followed her apparation signature, though I'm not quite sure how I did that. Then I found myself falling, and I hit water. She'd apparated to the Hogwarts lake. Apparently the anti-apparation boundary doesn't extend quite so far over it." Harry shook his head as he recalled the feel of the squid's slick tentacles around his torso. "I had dropped my wand at some point and crawled over to Nagini to strangle her, but she got the drop on me and bit my fingers, on my good hand, crushing me. It didn't help that I'd broken my glasses and a shard had embedded itself in one of my eyes. Then, she bit down on my throat and ripped it out. I was acutely aware of what was happening at that point, but it was all too quick and there was little I could do."

"What happened?" Ginny asked as Harry took a sip of his tea and paused.

"I died," Harry said, repeating his earlier phrase. "Not sure after that. I think maybe Dobby used necromancy. I think I might be a horcrux."

Another silence ensued, but it wasn't long before Fred asked, "Did you go after the Malfoys?"

Harry just nodded.

Fred seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before finally grinning, "That was a pretty cool mark you left."

Harry looked up to see Ginny and George nodding. "Bloody scary is what it was," Ginny added.

"yeah, how'd you do it?" George piped in.

"What're you talking about?" Harry asked bewildered.

"The mark over the Malfoys," Fred explained. He summoned an old Daily Prophet from the dustbin and threw it out in front of Harry, who spread it out so they could all see the Dark Mark floating in the air. Only, instead of being the usual green, it was a deep, polished gold. Harry just smiled. "I'd no clue it worked so well."

"What did you do?"

Harry just shrugged. "I let my magic do what it wanted, actually. There's something instinctual about elf magic. Sometimes magic happens around me, like it's manifesting my unconscious desires. I'm not even always aware of it." Harry pointed to the article. "I was feeling somber and a little bit nuts after torturing Draco. I figure my magic was just expressing itself."

"That's pretty creepy, mate," Fred said.

"Yeah, You might want to see a therapist about that," George added.

"Well, that's kind of why I came here," Harry explained. "I needed some familiar faces. You know, like a grounding wire for all this negativity."

"Ah, I see," Fred intoned thoughtfully. "What you're saying is that you missed fire whisky and Quidditch." Both the twins stood while Ginny just rolled her eyes and mouthed the word, Boys. "Come on. We can play a quick game on the roof of the manor. There's repulsion charms and everything."

"Really?" Harry asked, standing and being led away. He glanced over at Ginny and beckoned her to join them, which she did, however reluctantly.

Yeah, Harry thought, climbing to the top of the most ancient and noble house of Black and enjoying the feel of the morning sunshine as he was passed an old Cleansweep. Maybe things'll be all right after all.

By the time September 1st had rolled around, Harry found that he was in pretty good shape to be going out on his own. The school reopened to everyone's delight, and Ginny was allowed to go back for her sixth year. Harry politely declined, not wanting to be around so many students and not really having a use for the classes anymore. Instead, he elected to take a job at the twins shop, which he suspected Arthur was thankful for, as he was a formidable soldier and could double as a bodyguard for his reckless sons. The twins wanted to pay him, of course, either a wage or in a percentage, but Harry just shrugged and said they could work it out later. Maybe after the war. To Harry, it seemed a bit silly to squabble over coins when their very lives hung in the balance, though he understood all too well the deep-rooted pride that was entrenched in the Weasley psyche.

Diagon Alley, Harry discovered, was a sight for sore eyes. Having finally learned a sophisticated enough combination charm-transfiguration to fool aurors and Death Eaters alike, he was able to navigate the busy streets with relative freedom. He hadn't realized just how calming a stroll down the central wizarding district was to his nerves. Not even the war, which had admittedly taken the edge off the hustle and bustle of the place, had managed to rob Diagon Alley of that frenetic energy that he associated with many of the stores, not the least of which included Quality Quidditch Supplies and Flourish and Blotts. To his amusement, a new broom was now on display on the front window, and a small mob of what Harry guessed were second and third years had their faces plastered to the glass in what looked like a vain attempt to kiss it. He just shook his head at their antics, vaguely remembering a time from his own childhood where he and Ron had done something similar.

"Two hundred and fifty miles an hour," one of the kids was practically drooling. "And a built in legilimancer for precision handling..."

The charms work on that must be extraordinary, Harry mused, smoothly gliding past the Quidditch shop and ducking into Knockturn Alley. The twins, having discovered Harry's most impressive ability to scare the trousers off everybody short of You-Know-Who himself, had transformed him into their personal dark arts errand boy. It wasn't so much that they couldn't handle themselves in Knockturn, as it was the simple fact that Harry's intimidating persona was a boon when it came to haggling over price. It hadn't taken long for Harry to earn a reputation as a guy not to be fucked with, given the easy way he tended to dispatch people around him.

Even as the light from Diagon dimmed, and the sounds of busy traffic disappeared, he could see the forms of hags and dark arts peddlers scurrying towards the shadows to make way for him. Harry just smirked. Life was good, it seemed.

Harry entered a little apothecary off the beaten path. Most people tended to purchase their potions, but because Fred and George were in the process of modifications, they always had to do things by scratch. Making Harry secure their ingredients ended up serving the function of acquainting Harry with the eccentricities of many obscure, often barely legal items. Today, however, Harry was on the hunt for a particularly rare item. Even more so than usual.

"What can I do you for, stranger?" the wizened old hag across the counter inquired.

Bertha, the shop owner, Harry had quickly discovered pretended not to know the individuals who came into her shop. Even the regulars like Harry, which had, at first, thrown him off a bit. He wasn't sure whether it was stupidity or paranoia that drove her to behave this way, but he didn't care. "Phoenix blood," he said solemnly, already putting down a pouch filled to the rim with galleons. He supposed that it was the money alone, which she was eyeing greedily that kept her from shrieking in terror and leaving him alone in her store. Phoenix blood was notorious for cursing those who dared to handle it.

It was rumoured that only the most foolhardy and the most desperate ever bartered in such things, which made Harry wonder if Voldemort had ever made use of the substance. The uses for phoenix blood, correspondingly, were few, since most people dared not go near it, let alone experiment with it. Harry had actually spent two full minutes trying to dissuade Fred from searching for the product, but eventually conceded. He wondered if they had always been so reckless or if it were the deaths of their youngest brother and their mother that now drove them. For reasons Harry couldn't quite articulate, he prayed it was the former.

"There ain't nowhere in the isles, you gonna get that, boy," Bertha wheezed, already fingering the galleons. "This be mine just for talkin' about it."

Harry nodded. "Of course. that's yours for talking about it. I understand." Harry then snapped his fingers, and a vice formed around Bertha's neck. "The only problem is, galleons ain't no good to a dead witch."

Understandably, Bertha's eyes widened with surprised horror.

"So," Harry said casually, still using his most innocent, most conversational tone, "I expect that this conversation, for which I'm paying dearly, bears fruit. For both our sakes." With a twitch of his fingers, the vice tightened just a little bit.

Bertha squeaked.

"Come now, Bertha. Do not keep me waiting. Speak, or I will forever silence your tongue."

Bertha folded faster than a cheap hooker with a five dollar bill. "There's three places I know of where ya might find such a thing. The Dark Lord's rumoured to have a drop all to himself. They say he keeps one around his own neck at all times. They say he got it from Dumbledore's own phoenix once. The second drop belongs to an Estonian potions master, but whether he's got it still's another question."

'Name?"

"Taavi," she wheezed. "S'all I know of him."

"And the third?" Harry asked impatiently. None of her information was proving very useful, and Harry found he didn't like that. His psychotic side was feeling most aggrieved.

"Ya can take it from the source," she said, nervously fingering the clamp that was restricting her air flow. "Ya know, the ruddy birds 'emselves."

Harry raised an eyebrow at this. "Is that so?" Harry asked. "And how exactly am I supposed to get my hands on a phoenix? They have a tendency to apparate, assuming I even find one."

"There's a place!" Bertha managed as the vice grew ever tighter. "I heard of it once. Where the phoenixes go. Dozens of 'em, there are. Hundreds, even. The Phoenix Well, it's called. I swear."

"And where is this place?" Harry asked.

"Dunno."

Harry rolled his eyes and, feeling rather charitable towards the stooped old hag, he vanished the vice and said in clipped tones. "Go procure me some boonslang skin, compliments of the house."

Bertha scurried away to one of the far shelves, and returned promptly with a jar full of the substance. Harry snatched up the entire jar, despite Bertha's protests and walked out of the store. In truth, he had no use for boonslang skin, and wondered what the twins would do with such a thing. Still, he didn't care. He was feeling vindictive and decided that poaching her supplies a bit would be a good compromise between doing nothing and outright killing her. Besides, he was confident that the money in the pouch compensated her sufficiently.

When he got back to the store, Harry walked straight past the front counter and to the back room, where he slammed the jar of boonslang skins down on the worktable where Fred was working. "Phoenix Well," Harry said. "That's her bloody advice. Catch a Goddamned phoenix."

"Mmm," Fred said, still avidly focused on his work. "So go catch a phoenix, then."

Harry just spent a moment staring stupefied at Fred. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get there?" Harry asked, using the same clipped tones that he used with Bertha, only now they were meant to signify incredulity.

However, Fred did not seem to notice and simply replied, "Apparate."

"Apparate!" Harry said, raising his voice and slapping himself on the forehead. "Fuck me in the ass! Why didn't I think of that! I must be the biggest, sodding idiot in the universe. Apparate!" Harry just turned around and walked out of the twins' work room, still talking to himself. "Who the fuck knows how to apparate to a place that doesn't exist? What a load of bloody bullshit."

Harry, now having re-entered the main storefront, just stared about idly as kids made a last rush for the various knickknacks that they would need before school started. Glancing at a nearby clock, Harry noticed that it was already ten thirty, which meant that they had less than thirty minutes to make it to King's Cross. Harry wished he could say that they all looked so small, but, given that he himself was a mere five feet five inches, many of them were actually quite close to his height. Despite my ability to regrow entire limbs, I can't even score an extra couple of inches, he thought glumly.

Don't think about that, he admonished himself. You're Harry bloody Potter. You could have sex with half the chicks in this one horse town. He even noticed that Verity, the clerk, was eyeing him in a way that could only be described as leering. Unfortunately, his virility seemed to be at an all-time low. Not that it had ever been that high to begin with.

Harry went about doing his daily activities at the store front, which included stocking shelves, spying for shoplifters, covering the cash register when Verity had to go powder her nose. September 1st came and went with a distinct lack of events.

It wasn't until nearly three weeks later that something even vaguely interesting transpired.

Harry was sitting down to a morning cup of tea when the Daily Prophet landed on the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place.

"Hey," Ginny said, popping into the kitchen and snagging a blueberry-lemon muffin. "What's new in the world today?"

Harry shrugged and continued to scrutinize the grain of wood that composed the table, all the while sipping his tea daintily. He couldn't even muster up enough interest to ask why she was home for the weekend.

She bent over and let out a gasp, which, to people who didn't know Ginny very well, would have claimed was overly dramatic. Harry, however, just continued sipping his tea.

"Don't you even care what I'm gasping about?" Ginny demanded, eyeing Harry from the periphery of her vision as she tried to observe the love of her life while satiating her curiosity with the news article of great importance.

Harry just said. "Did it occur to you that maybe I just ripped the information from your feebly protected mind?" Harry inquired.

"You didn't!" Ginny exclaimed, aghast at the thought of having her privacy invaded.

"No, I didn't," he said, shrugging. "I just don't care."

"Hmph," Ginny said, fluffing the paper conspicuously and angling it so that Harry couldn't join in on reading the article with her. "The Harry Potter I knew would care about important events in the world."

"The Harry Potter you knew had the IQ of retarded fish," Harry countered. "Besides, I'm sure if it's important it'll reach my ears eventually."

"If you must know," Ginny said, as though Harry's words were an invitation to begin explaining the article. "The Ministry was attacked."

"Ah," Harry said knowingly. "Wondered when the old codger was gonna get around to that."

"You're such a smart ass, Potter," Ginny replied. "Don't you care a bit that nearly twenty aurors lost their lives? Sturgess Podmore included."

Harry set his tea cup down and turned his full attention to Ginny, who, to her credit, refused to back down. "I don't actually know Podmore very well, you know. I assure you, the news of any death pales in comparison to the deaths I've already had to suffer through. Not the least of which was my own. Besides, Podmore couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. What do I care if he's dead? He's probably more useful to us as fertilizer, anyway."

Ginny just stared at Harry dumbfounded, as if seeing him for the first time. Finally, she blinked as though to clear away a persistent memory and said, "You wouldn't happen to care to go for a bite to eat, would you?"

Harry thought about it and said, "Sure. I've got a craving for fish and chips."

"That's muggle food?" Ginny asked, not having heard of it before.

Harry nodded. "Yep. Wickedest stuff in the world. My cousin lives on the stuff. That and Johnny Walker."

"Isn't he horribly obese?"

Harry grinned. "Uh-huh."

"Cool." Ginny went and changed her clothes, and the pair went off for a friendly lunch.

"Now, Harry," Mad Eye Moody was saying, "There's a number of ways that you can get information out of a reluctant prisoner." Moody then proceeded to grin a really disturbing grin. "We're going to skip all that namby pamby veritassurum crap and move right on into the good stuff. Chances are you're not going to have a rare and expensive potion on hand anyway - certainly not one that could just as well be used against you if you got caught."

Moody drew his wand and aimed it at an animated dummy with distinctively sallow skin. "Razurro." Immediately, the skin began to peel away from the dummy's face, one layer at a time. "The great thing about this spell," Moody explained, "is that it takes its time to work. The pain grows steadily worse, and it requires little effort to maintain once the spell's made contact with the intended target. Also, the spell's not so excruciating that the victim can't talk while they're suffering. Unlike the cruciatus, which, as painful as it is, this spell allows you to converse with the victim while they are in the throes of a steadily worsening agony. that way, your victim, er, I mean, prisoner, doesn't have an opportunity to recuperate physically and emotionally. Another upshot is that the spell will eventually cause death, which tends to unnerve vic - I mean prisoners. They almost always start talking with a curse like this."

"Hmm," Harry said noncommittally.

"What, you're not impressed?" Moody asked, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"No, it's not that," Harry said quickly. "I was just wondering if there was a spell version that simulated veritassurum-like effects. Maybe something like that coupled with a pain curse like this. You know, a two-pronged attack."

Moody paused to eye Harry speculatively. "You know, I don't think anyone's ever really thought of that. There was once a spell used to induce soothsaying, but it fell out of favour. It tended to have the effect of inducing people to say things that they thought the caster wanted to hear. It made the spell unreliable. But you know, the same holds for torture, as well. You inflict enough pain and eventually, you can get a prisoner to confess to just about anything. Doesn't do you much good though."

"Is there a reason we're not using veritassurum?"

Moody nodded. "People can learn to evade questions under veritassurum, and even go so far as to provide misleading information. It's cost us on more than one occasion. Surely anyone with the Dark Mark will know how to tell half-truths."

Harry furrowed his brows in concentration. "But Dumbledore used it on Junior at the end of my fourth year. It worked fine then."

Moody nodded. "I doubt Crouch had much to hide at that point. He was probably bragging as much as anything."

"yeah, he did seem to gloat over how well he'd fooled everyone."

"Precisely. If you had asked questions about You-Know-Who's whereabouts, he probably would have given a useless answer. I suspect that Dumbledore didn't even bother asking."

"No, he didn't," Harry said, casting his mind back to that eventful day so long ago.

"At any rate," Moody said, "There's more to teach you, so I think we should move on. Obviously, you can drum up any number of ways of inflicting pain on your enemies, and they will all have their advantages and disadvantages. Experience is the best teacher in this regard. I want to draw your attention to the lead up. Often, when you have prisoners, you can inflict grievous psychological harm that will prove far more effective than outright physical harm. Here's a nice curse. It's a variant on the incarceration hex that you are no doubt familiar with."

Moody swished his wand upward and then brought it down with a snap. "Corpus tordum." Ropes flew out of his wand and hog-tied the dummy. "For a little extra persuasion, you can do the following," Moody instructed. He hung the dummy up by a hook, so that one of its arms was dislocated as it was forced to carry its own body weight with its arms and legs behind its back. "And then there's this if you want to get nasty." Moody laced the ropes with fine shards of glass. "Or this." The rope transformed into barbed wire. "Now your prisoner will be forced to spend minutes, or hours or days in discomfort."

"Isn't that going to be extremely painful?" Harry asked.

Moody nodded. "You want it to be. Any competent wizard will be able to induce a bit of wandless magic. By keeping them in constant pain and subject to blood loss and other moderate wounds, you will be draining their magic reserves, which will be forced to mend the worst of their injuries. This will ensure that you don't have prisoners up and escaping every chance they get. The alternatives are much more expensive, ranging from lots of aurors, dementors, magic dampening fields, etc. But those things don't have the added bonus of driving your prisoners to divulge their secrets. And that's why this method is so effective. It's cheap and serves two purposes."

"Right. Can't I just learn legilimancy?"

"Legilimancy's for pussies, Potter," Moody growled. "Torture the little fucks. Trust me. I know what I'm saying."

"Er, okay," Harry said, still dubious. He wasn't quite sure, but he suspected that he was actually pining for the tutelage of Severus Snape. I wonder if anyone around here knows legilimancy, Harry thought. That would be really cool to learn. Not that Harry didn't find torturing people worthwhile. He just wasn't sure he was prepared to torture people with the same artistry that people like Moody and Macnair were fond of doing. Is it so hard to just want to get the job done? Harry whined internally. He briefly considered going out and finding another Death Eater to torture into giving up the information he so desperately wanted. If only I knew where Voldemort was hiding. Harry shook his head to dispel the thought. It did no good. If a pansy like Draco wasn't going to give it up, there was no way a hardened Death Eater like Snape would.

"Anyway, the Minister has finally approved the new plan for Azkaban inmates," Moody was saying, a wistful expression on his face that told Harry whatever plan Moody was referring to would not be pleasant.

Driven by an inarticulable, morbid curiosity, Harry asked, "What plan is this?"

Moody glanced down at Harry, his electric blue eye fixating on him for a second before returning to its restless spinning. Moody then waved a hand at the hog-tied dummy. "That," Moody said with satisfaction. "Minister Scrimgeour has decided that the Ministry can no longer afford a strong auror presence at Azkaban when so many are needed here. He's already amended the Convicted Prisoners Act. Torture is now lawful and will quickly become the norm for prisoner treatment." Moody proceeded to smile his disturbing smile as he said, "Azkaban will be feared once more. The spilt blood of its prisoners will see to that."

Harry couldn't help but feel a chill run down his back at Moody's words, and he found, to his dismay, his mind wandering to the image of Stan Shunpike, the incompetent, acne-riddled wizard with bad teeth who would become one of those made an example of. It reminded Harry of Sirius Black, his late Godfather. It was a distinctly uncomfortable comparison though he wasn't sure why. He wasn't particularly interested in advocating on behalf of the weak and the down-trodden. Harry Potter had enough troubles without dwelling on all the things that could count as injustices in the world. Still, in his mind, a chain reaction had begun. Not only did images of Stan's stupidly smiling face and inane chattering fill his head, but so did the image of Percy trailing behind the Minister at the Burrow during Christmas, and the image of Scrimgeour at Dumbledore's funeral, Umbridge's sickly sweet smile, and the scars that had once been etched in on his hand.

Harry pursed his lips with distaste.

"Moody," Harry cut in, not caring what memory of blood and mayhem the old man was revelling in at the moment.

"Yeah, Potter?"

"Teach me everything I need to know to storm Azkaban prison."

If it were possible, Moody's grin just got a whole lot more disturbing.


	6. Azkaban

Chapter Six

Azkaban

Like Hogwarts, Azkaban was built on a nexus of powerful magical energies. However, unlike the thousand year old institution of learning, which was built on a confluence of light magic, Azkaban, conversely, was built on dark. It was rumoured that the island had been bathed in the blood of an entire race of people; that the island was borne out of genocide. Its very rocks sang with malice. It hungered for victims to share in the agony that was perpetrated on it so long ago. In 1546, to be precise. It was also rumoured that the ring of water that encircled the island had turned red with boiling blood, and that, from it, rose the dementors, who were thus, forever called to serve the island.

Harry lightly touched down on the edge of the terrible place, the sound of his black combat boots clicking against the smooth black rock being swept away by the rush of wind that streamed out over the ocean. Harry was not surprised to see that the magic that permeated the place was entirely black, much like the energy of the dementors themselves, who sought to sap warmth and light from everywhere they went. He was more surprised that the normally grey stone had been turned black, almost as though the magic had fused so deeply with the island that it had been rendered visible to the naked eye. Like stains of blood.

The outer rim of rocks that lined the island were a lustrous black, which made Harry think of obsidian, though he doubted it was anything so pedestrian. In sharp contrast, the sands that led up to the front gate of the seven storey high building were a mixture of finely ground, silken grains of a crisp, snow white, on the one hand, and, on the other, a myriad of shards of the black, obsidian-like rocks that encircled it. As he stood there, silently gazing upon the dark magnificence of Azkaban, Harry understood acutely the reason that people shuddered to think of it. Azkaban was not unlike the Dark Lord, in that respect - so unique, so brilliant and having come so far as to be incomprehensibly powerful to the average witch or wizard.

Harry took his first steps onto the beach, his boots crunching slightly as he made his way up the gentle slope, his black cape streaming out behind him, his hands, insulated by shining, black gloves, clenched to either side. The magic, he knew, was trying to eat him alive, and it was all he could do to shield himself against it. Stan, your life better seriously be worth this, Harry grumbled. He was suddenly no longer sure that he actually had the power to penetrate Azkaban and free prisoners, which was a thought that wrangled a bit. He felt so strong, so alive all the time. His elven half gave him strength and perceptive and madness that coagulated to form a feeling of invincibility. It didn't hurt that he could take on ten wizards at once. Still, he had never counted on the full power of Azkaban to be quite like this.

Don't be such a Goddamned wimp, he told himself. Get your ass in gear and get over to the doors. For all you know, this is the only defense this hovel's got, and you're letting it kick your ass. What kind of a Chosen One are you?

the kind that spends his time trying to insult the Ministry, it seemed.

Harry marshalled whatever energy he could to reinforcing the pools of magic that he had to constantly keep around his person and proceeded to continue up the slope to the main doors, which, to his dismay, were not guarded by anything as mundane as a human. A ward of some kind protected it, but, like the rest of Azkaban and unlike the normal wards that Harry was used to seeing, these ones seemed to ooze out of the very door itself, as opposed to manifesting itself as a barrier around the property.

What kind of a bloody place is this? Harry thought irritably. Finite incantanum, he thought, waving a spread of magic at the door, which he already knew would fail. Before the puddle of magic even reached the door, it dispersed like light rays trying to penetrate the ocean depths.

Bloody useless, he thought, throwing as much magic as he could muster at the door, and proving that that method was simply not effective.

Harry tapped his foot thoughtfully and stroked his chin with one gloved hand. Eventually, he settled on conjuring a really big axe with a really sharp blade and swinging it at the door. It clicked uselessly against the wood, and, to Harry's further dismay, proceeded to disintegrate where it came into contact with the door. Okay, Harry thought, no touching anything around here. Check.

"Oh fuck this," Harry said impatiently. He stood back and charged a killing curse, which he flung at the door with all his strength. "Ain't nothing gonna block that baby." And, to Harry's ever-growing frustration, the curse disappeared, as though it simply sailed through the door.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" Harry screamed, stamping his foot against the ground, his magic rolling off his body in waves and making tracks in the sand. Dammit, Potter, get a hold of yourself. Think. Think think think think. There's gotta be a way to break these wards. Voldemort did it, after all. Okay, you can't actually block the killing curse. Everybody knows that. And you know what happens to magic when it's blocked. It bounces off, and that didn't happen to your curse. Harry experimentally sent a stunner, which, sure enough, bounced off with the tell-tale sign of red light rippling backwards in a dissipating wave. Harry then cast another killing curse, followed by a cruciatus, which also seemed to just disappear into the door, as though it were going beyond to some other point. Harry maintained the cruciatus for several seconds so that he could study the magic of the wards on the door, and, to his surprise, he found that the wards seemed to disappear on impact with the deadly dark magic, leaving a gentle void behind.

I can get on board with voids, Harry thought, a crazy and poorly thought out plan forming in his mind. You're the Chosen One. Come on, no matter what you do, a mere door's not going to kill you. Nervously, Harry charged a killing curse, though, instead of rooting it in his palm, he let the curse sizzle over the skin of his entire body, giving him an eerie, life leeching aura that was hard to watch for any decently light-sided person.

The guards who had been laughing on the other side of the door at Harry's futile efforts were now shitting their pants. Calmly and with purpose, Harry walked through the door, the energy of the killing curse sizzling as it interacted with the dark wards that were meant to protect Azkaban prison.

Once inside, Harry was surprised to see that the entry way was pretty much a large open wall with desks to either side. On the far wall, he could see the scorch marks where several killing curses had hit home. Klaxons were now sounding and there were two guards firing some very disturbing curses at Harry, who discovered shortly that his curse shield was most effective at insulating him against those attacks. Hmm, he pondered. I think I'll call this the Green Shield. It had a nice ring to it, though Harry would eventually come to regret that decision, as most people would associate it with environmental terrorists.

Both the guards eventually threw down their wands in disgust and fear, and fled the sight of Harry, glowing with curse energy, his eyes ablaze and looking like fiery orbs from behind his sunglasses. Harry moved through the prison with relative alacrity, which made him distinctly uncomfortable. Where were all the protections? Was the door and the trek across the sand all these people had? He supposed that, once upon a time, there were dementors, but surely they would have been replaced with something else. Moody's words rang in his head, regarding the recall of the aurors, but Harry couldn't believe that only two would be left to maintain security.

Finding Stan Shunpike was proving to be far more difficult than Harry had anticipated. Most of the cells he entered hosted Death Eaters, which tended to die after throwing their battered bodies at him in a feeble attempt to escape, only to come into contact with his Green Shield and unknowingly snuff their own pitiful lives out. Harry wasn't terribly concerned. He was more interested in figuring out the extent of his ability to cast magic from other parts of his body. One Death Eater stared up at him from the far wall, unable to lunge forward, because he had been nailed through the wrists to the stone.

"Maybe you'd be good for an experiment," Harry mused, his eyes twinkling. "Legilimans," he intoned, magic rushing from his own eyes and impacting with the anonymous Death Eater's.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" the man shrieked, his whole body gyrating lewdly from the pain. Harry's magic didn't have quite the intended effect. Instead of letting Harry into the Death Eater's unprotected mind, it just liquefied his eyeballs so they dripped down his face and burned his skin. "Well, that was unexpected," Harry said aloud as he killed the Death Eater. If it weren't so gruesome, it could serve as a party trick.

Harry eventually found Stan on the fifth floor, and much worse for wear than the last time Harry had seen him.

"Neville?" Stan croaked, looking up into Harry's green eyes of death.

"Er, yeah, it's me," Stan," Harry said, suddenly uncomfortable. Who would've thought that lie would come back and bite me in the ass. Harry moved into the cell and closed the bars to try and muffle the klaxons, which were still going in full force.

"You look like the Devil," Stan said blearily.

"You'd be surprised how often I get that," he responded, scaling back his Green Shield so he could undo Stan's shackles. To Harry's horror, the man looked to be suffering from the Razor curse that Moody had shown him. The curse still seemed to be acting on Stan, albeit ever so mildly.

Harry concentrated all his magic to dispel the horrid thing before conjuring a simple cot that Stan could lie down on. "Listen, Stan, I'm going to get you out of here," Harry said, wincing as a flap of Stan's cheek peeled off and blood spurted onto the cotton sheets. Harry resolved to learn some healing magic the next time he was at Grimmauld Place.

Stand just wheezed in response.

"Harry conjured a cup of water and put it to Stan's lips. "Drink this, and then we're going to get you out of here, okay?"

"Sure, thing, Neville," Stan said, coughing up a lungful of mucus that dribbled viscously down his chin. Harry unconsciously vanished it and managed to get some water down the wiry man's throat. "Listen, Stan, I need to know whether you're going to be able to walk. If you can't, let me know and I'll just float you out of here."

After a moment, in which Harry wondered whether Stan was going to respond, he finally said, "yeah, I can walk. Just - just maybe give me a hand, would ya, Nev?"

"Sure thing, Stan." Harry helped lift Stan to his feet and then let Stan throw his arm around Harry for support. Harry then conjured Stan some shoes around his swollen feet and they proceeded to make their way out of the cell. For the first time in his life, Harry felt a sense of something immeasurable working its way through his stomach. He wasn't sure what it was, except that, maybe, for the first time, he felt like going after Stan Shunpike was more than just a matter of saying, "fuck you," to the Ministry, to Scrimgeour, to Percy Weasley. Harry glanced over at Stan's weary but determined eyes, and saw a resolve there.

Adversity can break us, or it can make us hard, Harry mused, and he suddenly found himself gaining a whole new respect for the gawky Knight Bus conductor.

Before Harry and Stan made it ten steps down the hall towards the nearest stairwell, they ran across a peculiar sight. The door to a nearby cell burst open, a now lifeless Azkaban guard's head thwacking flatly against the opposite wall and oozing its way down to the floor.

"Ugh," Stan said, peeling his eyes away from the sight with disgust.

"Er, I didn't do that," Harry said uncertainly, his gaze flickering between the broken up iron door and the severed head. Not a minute later, two tall, gaunt figures strode purposefully out of the cell. Two figures who Harry hated more than Lord Voldemort himself.

Severus Snape and Bellatrix Lestrange.

CRUCIO! Harry thought furiously, charging a ball of liquid-like amber energy in his palm an spraying it forward in a shower of sparks.

However, neither Snape nor Bella were hit, despite the suddenness of the attack, because Lord Voldemort strode out of the room, Lucius Malfoy, in all his glory, immediately following, as though he had never been a prisoner in the first place, but a revered guest.

All four of them were now facing Harry and Stan, their wands drawn and a transparent shield deflecting the multitude of cruciatus sparks that were trying to sizzle their way past the magical barrier that Lord Voldemort had erected.

"Well, well," said Lord Voldemort, eyeing Harry and his companion critically. "This is most curious."

"What in God's ass are you doing here?" Harry spat.

"Language, Mr. Potter," Voldemort admonished.

"Fuck language, Voldemort," Harry said, switching to Parseltongue to keep the others out of the loop. "What in the world are you doing here?"

Voldemort glanced at Stan Shunpike ever so briefly before returning his gaze, placid expression and all, back to Harry. "It appears that I am doing exactly what you are doing, Mr. Potter. I am liberating one of those individuals unjustly accused and imprisoned in this God forsaken hole."

Harry found himself instinctively sneering. he gestured at Lucius and said, "That's the vermin you call unjustly accused?"

"A matter of perception, my dear boy," replied Voldemort, continuing in an infuriatingly mild tone.

"Avada kedavra," Harry said, making sure Voldemort knew exactly which spell he was using. The green ball of death advanced at lightning speed, and Harry was certain that at least one of them would be hit, which he would count as a major victory. Unfortunately, and to his chagrin, the transparent shield that Voldemort had erected absorbed the killing curse as naturally as it had the cruciatus.

Voldemort shook his head pityingly. "So powerful you are, Harry, and yet so much you still must learn." He gestured to the shield. "No doubt you are trying to fathom how it is that I can erect a shield that blocks curses you have been told are impossible to block. I've no doubt that, with enough application and enough training, you may very well come to understand the theory behind this shield. It is something that I do prize."

Harry's jaw worked soundlessly as Voldemort spoke, but, when he managed to conjure up a word, the only one he could manage was, "How?"

"Clearly your education is so lacking that you cannot even understand the simplest concepts of magic. Tell me, Harry, why are the unforgiveables regarded as unblockable? What makes them unique?"

"I don't know,' Harry admitted, albeit grudgingly. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was giving up territory to an enemy.

Voldemort smiled a benign, fatherly sort of smile. "Perhaps that should be where you begin your inquiry."

"Goddamn," Harry muttered. "I take it we're not fighting, then? You don't want to try and kill me?"

Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow, if such a thing were possible, and then just shook his head. "I would much rather you join me as an ally, Harry. But I see by your expression and your thoughts that that will never be the case."

"You kill muggle borns," Harry said. 'You murdered my best friends."

Voldemort nodded. "It does tend to be a rather alienating part of my platform, does it not?"

Just then, four aurors burst up the stairwell, their wands poised to kill. they each managed a killing curse, as futile as it was given Voldemort's shield, before the Dark Lord, flicked his wand with a dry crack, causing the walls to distend and for two stone snakes to pincer the hapless aurors, effectively biting two of them in half. The other two aimed blasting hexes at the snakes, but only succeeded in chipping the hard stone before they too succumbed in a gurgled cry of protest.

Harry narrowed his eyes thoughtfully; a move which immediately made Lord Voldemort tense up. Finally, Harry said, "You can't move without breaking your shield. Which means you're stuck fighting me. Because, quite frankly, I'm not prepared to back down from a fight. I killed your bitch slut snake, Nagini. She begged for mercy by the time I was through with her."

Voldemort pursed his lips in a sign of irritation. "You really do have a foul mouth on you, boy."

Harry grinned viciously and pressed the attack. "Would you believe she didn't even get a decent magical death. I strangled her with my own bare hands. It was all very muggle."

Harry's words seemed to light a spark of rage that danced across Voldemort's red eyes. In clipped tones, he said, 'Lucius, Severus, Bella. Leave me."

"But my lord," Bella protested, eyeing Harry nervously. "is that wise?"

Voldemort just turned a speculative eye to the madwoman, the force of which drove her to her knees to beg forgiveness.

'I did not mean it that way, my lord," she said hastily, bowing her head in deference as she sank to her knees. "I just. Would it not make sense for us to remain?"

"You will carry out my instructions, as I have ordered them, Bella," Voldemort said in a tone that brook no argument. "Surely you must have grasped that this is a time-sensitive issue. Do not fail me, or the consequences will be unpleasant. You have not forgotten the Department of Mysteries, have you?"

'No, my lord," Bella murmured, defeated.

"go then," Voldemort ordered, and his three soldiers disappeared down the hall, past the dead aurors and down the stairwell.

"All right, Potter," Voldemort said, turning his full attention to Harry. "Now we shall see who the true victor is."

"to the death then," Harry agreed. "Once and for all."

"Once and for all," Voldemort echoed. "En garde."

Harry cast Stan to the side, where he practically melted into the wall to keep from being vapourized by the fierce magical duel that ensued.

Much like the battle between Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort in the Ministry atrium at the end of Harry's fifth year, both combatants switched exclusively to silent spells. Voldemort's first spell was not directed at Harry, but instead recreated the same animated transfiguration that killed the aurors. Only, instead of two snakes, there were four, all writhing to their own internal rhythm as they sought out their prey.

Having seen this transfiguration just moments earlier, Harry had already braced himself for it. However, he had not quite counted on the ferocity of the stone serpents. He rapidly conjured a shield to either side, fixing them in place while he continued to shower cruciatus curses and blasting hexes in all directions, as though he were a fountain of energy, or possibly a Weasley Whizbang. The snakes pounded against his shields, which sent jarring reverberations through his body, and shattering his shields, which he simply restored and reinforced. Meanwhile, Voldemort just watched behind his shield as Harry fended off the four-way pincer attack. The snakes to his left executed a maneuver in concert, whereby one snake would assault the shield while the other attempted to ease by it going underneath. With its vice-like jaws, the serpent crushed Harry's left shin, so that bones and blood and nerve endings all exploded outward from either side of its mouth, completely pulverizing Harry's leg. Harry, however, hardly even noticed. After all, it was the second time that summer that his leg had been utterly destroyed, and he was getting quite used to it. Instead, he brought his shield down on top of the serpent's head without giving it a moment to pull him down, and effectively cracked its skull apart. Unfortunately, this gave the first snake an opening through which to snap at Harry's head, which he only managed to block with a blasting hex that the stone serpent took clean in the face, blowing off its lower jaw so that all it could do was headbutt Harry, which proved to be sufficient. Harry found his other shield had mostly been destroyed, just as he was dragged downward and narrowly avoided having his head cracked wide open like a coconut.

Harry sent a vicious severing curse to his leg, cleaving it off at the point where the serpent had its jaws around his now useless foot. He also sent out bolts of raging energy in all directions, including conjuring stones of equal size to now bash against the three remaining serpents. One of them managed to clamp down on his arm and break it in three different places before he blew it apart with a tripartite blasting hex at point blank range to its head. Quickly, the other two fell, and Harry staggered back, only to fall on his butt as a killing curse whizzed by overhead. Lord Voldemort, it seemed, had lowered his shields.

Harry immediately sent two killing curses in rapid succession, along with a sprinkling of what he called cruciatus sparks that sizzled across the open space and seared Voldemort's skin. Voldemort hardly seemed to notice and instead focused on assaulting Harry with a barrage of heavy spellfire. To Harry's dismay, Voldemort was capable of discharging no less than four spells simultaneously, and it took all of Harry's strength to maintain a shield that would hold back all his blasting hexes, evisceration curses and various other high damage spells. Harry found himself being backed slowly and inevitably to the far wall, which was a dead end.

"Most impressive, Harry," Voldemort said conversationally as he continued to pummel Harry with spells. He glanced down at Harry's leg and saw that it had mostly regenerated. "Full body regeneration," Voldemort mused. "I hadn't executed the dark rituals to gain me that skill until I was thirty-five."

Harry dared to let one spleen extraction curse get by his shield so that he could divert his concentration long enough to transfigure the walls to either side of Voldemort into long stalactites. Score, he thought, as one of them impaled Voldemort through his mid-section. Already, Harry's magic was reforming his spleen and the open wound where it had exited and splattered across the ground. Voldemort just blew apart the stone spike with his wand and resealed his wound with almost the same level of efficiency and fluidity with which Harry had done it himself.

"As you've no doubt noticed," Voldemort said, casting two killing curses simultaneously that Harry only managed to block by summoning chunks of the floor as shields. "Animated transfiguration is much more effective. Pity you haven't learned it yet."

Voldemort swept his wand backward, giving Harry enough time to send two blasting hexes and a killing curse Voldemort's way. However, neither hit the Dark Lord as he simply shimmered ever so briefly, much like the doors to Azkaban had done, thus letting the spells stream right through him.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Harry demanded, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Pity you haven't learned warding either," Voldemort said matter-of-factly. "Surely you now see the advantages."

"Avada kedavra," Harry said, almost resignedly and knowing the spell was pretty much useless.

"The spleen extraction curse is an exceptionally violent curse that causes certain death within minutes," Voldemort said. "Not even Albus Dumbledore could have survived it. No human could, in fact, because their magic is not designed to handle such a thing. Curious that you show so many signs of inhumanness."

"We are equals, you know," Harry said, trying to shrug off Voldemort's scrutinizing gaze. "Did you really think I'd be such a pushover?"

Voldemort brought his wand upward in a sharp arc, which caused the entire ceiling to split apart so that nearly six tonnes of rock came crashing down upon them. "Anti-apparation wards are rather pesky, aren't they?" Voldemort inquired as the rocks buried Harry in debris. Or, at least, they should have buried him.

Instead, he just stood, much like Voldemort was doing, with the rocks crumbling to dust and being sprayed out away from him as though they were being magnetically repelled. "You're so going to have to do better than that, tough guy," Harry said smugly. "There's more here than just a pretty face."

"I see I am going to have to step up the assault," Voldemort said, eyeing Harry critically. "So be it. Let us duel then." Voldemort adopted a dueling posture and took a step back to ready himself.

Harry charged magic around him, letting it whisper to him its dark thoughts. Yes, he mused. I'm so going to nail your ass.

Both of them coiled their shields tightly around their bodies. Let only the strongest survive.

In a flash, both began launching spells as hard and as fast as they could manage.

Reducto - disfugio - eviscero - razurro. Voldemort launched four spells simultaneously from his wand, each one honing in on Harry's form, each one impacting with the force of a bludger and causing enough damage to put an average wizard down for the count. The reductor curse tore apart Harry's hip bone and shattered his pelvis so that bone fragments shot out through his torso and leg like shrapnel, while the disfiguring curse snaked seventeen lacerations across his chest, while the evisceration curse slashed a deep gouge across his torso and began pulling out each major organ one by one, while, finally the skin peeling curse began slicing off parts of his face.

In a simultaneously occurring counter-move, Harry managed to nail Voldemort right between the eyes with a bone breaking hex that fractured his skull along two axes, giving his head the look of an amoeba that was trying to cell divide, while putting the rest of his power behind a slicing curse that cleaved most of the way through Voldemort's abdomen and an incendiary spell that lit Voldemort ablaze.

Despite the gravity of their wounds, neither paid attention, to their injuries instead choosing to let their magic do its thing, each one reserving just a little bit to heal their respective wounds so they could continue firing without pause. A muggle watching the battle probably would have described it as similar to the first few days of world war one, where machine gun fire darkened the skies in Europe, and where each side mowed each other down like grass.

Voldemort, now a flaming specter of death with his tall gaunt figure, bone-white face and red eyes, discharged no less than five spells at once, all of them coming out so rapidly that smoke began to issue from his wand tip and, with so much energy being forged, the spells seemed to thicken and pool together, their respective colours forming an indistinct purplish-black mass that writhed and moved hungrily towards Harry, who was furiously drawing together as much magic as he could muster to deliver an equivalent blow to his nemesis. Come on, baby, come on, come on, come baby, come baby, come! Fuck, yeah! Harry let out a stream of viscous blue-flecked golden magic that zigzagged around the black mass of raw energy that Voldemort was spewing at him and impacted his nemesis, just as he himself was hit dead center in the chest, his mostly healed body groaning under the protest as his body immediately sutchered together a tight magical shield to soften the blow. Harry's shield, for the briefest moment, groaned and bent, barely holding together and seeming to stop the mass of raw spell energy, which was rapidly dissipating, before it shattered with the sound of sizzling glass, the backlash of which seared large burns across his chest. Harry staggered backward, the black pool hovering for a brief second as if to enjoy the moment of its victory, before launching itself forward at unusual speed and gouging at Harry's flesh, ripping him apart thirstily, eating at his body, drinking his blood, slashing apart his stomach, spreading out to rip out deep chunks of flesh and bone from his arms.

Harry's eyes were watering so badly from the excruciating pain that he could hardly make out Voldemort, who was falling to his knees from the continuous stream of blindingly bright energy that he was still managing to send against him. Dimly, Harry was aware that Voldemort too was now continuing to discharge a constant stream of bolts of raw energy at Harry, continually eating away at his defenses.

Like acid against metal, both Harry and Voldemort were slowly being eaten away, their magic waxing and wherever needed, and slowly but inevitably being overwhelmed by the intolerable pressure that was being placed against them.

Harry, seeing that Voldemort was grinning like a madman and wanting nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face, diverted a small stream of energy to impact him right in his clean white teeth, which, to Harry's pleasure, worked wonderfully, as his magic blew apart Voldemort's lower jaw and sent his molars punching through the back of his throat. Take that, fucker.

However, even as his magic cleared, he saw that Voldemort was still grinning maniacally, and, suddenly concerned that there was a reason for his foe's unquellable joy, looked down and saw to his horror that he was no longer repelling the magical damage being committed to his body with the same fluid grace that he had been earlier. One of his hands had been vapourized, leaving a burnt stump at the wrist. He also saw that Voldemort's magic had already eaten its way through his chest bone.

You're losing, Harry thought distractedly. You're bloody well losing. The concept seemed almost incomprehensible to him, as though it came from another language and culture where such a thing as loss did not exist. Harry Potter had always been alone. He had lost so much in his life that he wore his loss like a second skin, but even then, he himself had always come out on top, always had survived, through one way or another, and that too had given him comfort. And now that comfort, that last mental shield that had always made him a little more reckless and a little more confident than he should have been, was now collapsing.

I'm dying, he thought morosely. I'm dying again.

In those terrible moments of realization, even as his magic was working against Voldemort and Voldemort's was working against him - even as the magical backwash from their discharges was vapourizing the walls and cell doors and ceilings and debris and even the floors around them, leaving them floating in a vacuous dark space - even then, he couldn't help but think of those people that loved him. His parents, of course. His Godfather. Dumbledore. Each one in turn had died in the process of protecting him. Each one on their feet, each one in the heat of desperate battle, and each one taking it in stride in the only way they knew how. James and Lily Potter, desperate, loving, feeling deeply for their infant son and for one another. Sirius, oblivious and cheery to a fault. And, of course, Dumbledore, who had simply remained serene. And while Harry may have hated Dumbledore at points in his life, now, facing death and having faced it before, Harry couldn't help but admire the hardness in Dumbledore's life that forged his iron will - a will that most people mistook for placidity. Dumbledore did what had to be done. He was a chess master, a puppeteer, and a brilliant one at that, and Harry knew that, while he could, nor would, never pull strings the way Dumbledore did, he nevertheless realized that, to win a war, sacrifices had to be made. And Harry realized that he was okay with the idea of being a sacrifice, of having sacrificed things like a childhood. It would not have done for him to be drunk with his own fame.

Harry's eyes blazing, he made a snap decision, knowing that it would probably kill him. He retracted his magic, pooled it around his body to form a solid, shimmering, diamond-like shield against which Voldemort's attacks splashed off in waves of searing energy that disappeared into the dark ether around them. And, before Voldemort could pause, Harry charged his arch-nemesis in a suicidal blitz attack.

Voldemort's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before Harry rammed into him full force, the magic emanating between them exploding outward, half of it being reflected off Harry's shield and into Voldemort and the other half shattering Harry's shield and laying waste to his body at point blank range.

Both of them tumbled awkwardly together through space until they reached the far side of Azkaban, two floors down, where part of the flooring was still intact and where they impacted flatly, skulls jarring, bones breaking as the unyielding concrete broke their fall.

"Oof!" Harry wheezed, his front teeth spraying out in a pool of blood across Voldemort's ripped up, bloody chest.

Voldemort just grunted inarticulately as his head contacted with the far wall, creating a second fracture point just behind the occipital lobe.

Harry tried to roll over in an attempt to extricate himself from Lord Voldemort, but he found that he had almost no strength and his magic seemed non-existent, as it was still trying to heal the heavy wounds and simply keep him alive. He found to his dismay that even his cracked ribs and broken arm were apparently on the low priority list for his internal magic, because they didn't seem to be getting better anytime soon. On the contrary, his arms looked like they were becoming infected.

Before Harry could manage to formulate another plan of attack, he felt himself being bodily removed from Voldemort and thrown roughly to one side, only to land in a heap next to the Dark Lord. the glassy, unfocused look in Voldemort's eyes was slowly returning to normal as Voldemort regained control of his faculties. Desperately, Harry tried to conjure a knife with which to stab the Dark Lord and hopefully put an end to their collective misery. He held out his one good hand and concentrated as hard as he could to will a blade into existence. Come on, he thought bitterly, this is your last chance, you wretched fuck. Make it happen. Unfortunately, all that materialized was some wilted lettuce. Harry stared at the rubbery pieces of whitish flaps for a long time, as though he couldn't comprehend their meaning, before, finally, he simply hung his head in shame.

Voldemort, meanwhile, coughed up part of his stomach lining, which he spat disgustedly into Harry's lap before inhaling deeply and looking around. From the few markings on the wall, he could tell that they had somehow landed on the third floor of the fortress, though how they managed to drop two floors was beyond him. He glanced over and saw Harry slumped over and looking terribly dejected. This is your chance, he told himself, gazing about in the hopes of spying his wand. to his dismay, the only thing he saw that looked remotely close was a stick of burnt wood, which, upon further scrutiny, did appear to be his wand. As if to rub insult to injury, a gentle breeze came out of nowhere and cause the deadly yew-phoenix combination to crumble to nothing more substantial than dust. Voldemort picked at his nails in frustration before finally reaching one hand out and aiming a blasting hex at Harry's throat. Like Harry, however, all he could muster up were some sparks that only served to singe his own fingers. Voldemort pursed his lips in frustrated silence.

"So now what?" he asked to no one in particular.

Harry just shrugged.

However, before either of them could marshal a plan, either to escape or to kill one another, something neither of them expected, happened. A series of narrow stone blades punched through their already mangled bodies, effectively pinning them to the wall. Harry watched, mortified, as a long claw like stone knife extruded from the stone behind him, snaking its way through his body and piercing his already fragile heart in a spurt of blood that spattered against his legs. Similar blades were oozing out around him, slicing through his arms, his legs, and one through his shoulder. He only barely managed to move his head to one side to keep from being lobotomized. Thankfully, that seemed to be the last of them, for the tingling feeling of magic being performed subsided and Harry felt it was safe to glance around. To his satisfaction, he saw that Voldemort was in no better shape. In fact, there seemed to be no less than three blades impaling him through the torso, which was a fact that made Harry both satisfied and unnerved. Who exactly, had done this to them? It didn't make sense for it to be the aurors, and he doubted it was a natural defense of the building, since it had taken so long to manifest itself.

It was Voldemort who asked aloud, though from his tone, Harry could tell that he wasn't nearly as bewildered as himself. "Who's there?"

Harry focused on looking around for magical disturbances, knowing that even invisible people would not be able to hide. Quite the opposite, actually. After a bit of scanning and peering about in the gloom, and tearing his eyes away from the surprising amount of vermin that were scampering in the darker recesses of the prison, Harry's eyes fell upon two distinct shapes. He glanced over at Voldemort and saw that the Dark Lord was already gazing intently at that particular space. Harry too, decided to focus on it and see what he could gleam.

"They're young, he mused, not quite sure how his magic knew that, other than they felt fresh, more alive. One's a girl, he thought.

"Very good, Harry," the female said. "That's quite the magic you've got. You've improved since we last met." And then, before his eyes, two people he never thought he would see materialized. Hermione and a twenty-four year old Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry instinctively felt a surge of joy at seeing his long-time best friend; the one who had saved him so many times before, like during the Triwizard Tournament. The one whose loyalty had never wavered.

But then, almost immediately following this momentary euphoria, a cold dread began to settle in the pit of his stomach, as his rational mind began asking questions. Disturbing questions which led to answers that made him distinctly uncomfortable. Questions like: Why's she so chummy with a horcrux? And: Why's her hair no longer bushy?

"Hermione?" Harry asked tentatively, silently praying that there was a perfectly good explanation for all this. Maybe the horcrux is really a born-again light-sided squib. Yeah, right, and maybe I'm a cuntlicker.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity and perpetual bewilderment, Voldemort had instead taken the precious seconds after their arrival to study his once loyal horcrux. He knew that the little bastard was no longer tied to him, and had, quite reasonably, assumed that Griffin had simply died. It appeared, now, that he did not die but instead chose to rebel against him, and had done so in the most clever of ways. The boy was now soul-bonded to the mudblood, which was a very particular ritual that had potent results. Voldemort would have executed the ritual himself to increase his already formidable magical power, except that it would have meant tying himself to another person through a form of mutual consent and partnership, and, like all dark Lords before him, he was not interested in sharing power. It was not the way of Dark Lords to have equals amongst them. Voldemort noticed with contempt that Harry was still gawking like an idiot at the dark duo, and wondered not for the first time how it was that the brat had managed to best him time and again. Focus, he instructed himself. Voldemort glanced surreptitiously at his surroundings, but he saw no feasible instrument with which to either attack or defend. With his already depleted magical strength, which was now being sapped constantly by the multiple puncture wounds in his body, he had very little magic to repel them. And, worst of all, he was mortal, not that immortality would help him against Griffin, who would surely have known where to find his horcruxes and circumvent the traps, assuming there were any left to destroy. Which, of course, there weren't. And Voldemort was sure that Harry was no better off, not that Voldemort was going to count on Harry Potter to save him.

"Yes, Harry, it's me," Hermione replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Er, I'm really glad you're here," Harry said, though his voice, even to his own ears, sounded false.

Hermione just smiled. "Me too, Harry. Me too."

"You wouldn't perhaps care to extricate me from these, er, spikes, would you?" Harry asked, almost pleadingly, as though he could pretend a little longer that it hadn't been Hermione who put them there in the first place.

Hermione just adopted a sad expression and shook her head, effectively dousing Harry's last bit of hope in kerosene and lighting it afire. "You know I can't do that."

"but why?" Harry asked, now whining. "It hurts." He looked down at his feeble body, which was still expelling blood.

"It's supposed to hurt, Harry," Hermione lectured quietly. Harry could almost pretend that they were back in the common room and Hermione was just explaining what she thought was a simple theoretical concept in transfiguration. That thought, however, seemed to just stoke Harry's rage anew. However, unlike the diffuse, unfocused rage that he was used to experiencing, the kind of rage that ended up destroying Dumbledore's office at the end of his fifth year, he instead felt a compact ball of icy rage forming in his stomach where the desolation had once resided. The power the Dark Lord knows not is not love, Albus, Harry thought fiercely. it's my sheer obstinacy. I'm going to beat this. I don't know how, but I'm going to do it, because I'm a crazy fuck with a missing hand.

Griffin came forward and knelt before the Dark Lord Voldemort, his barely restrained glee shining through his black eyes. "Hello, brother," Griffin hissed softly.

Voldemort just narrowed his eyes, not interested in giving in to his former horcrux's taunts.

"I can't thank you enough for resurrecting me," Griffin went on, as though Voldemort wanted to hear what he had to say. "Did I ever tell you how cold it was, living inside that place - that mysterious object that shall remain nameless for the purposes of suspense? Did I ever tell you how I watched, in the gloom, in the darkness, for decades, waiting with nothing more than my own burgeoning insanity for company? No, I suppose I wouldn't have, because I knew it would do no good. You would have just sent me back after dispatching Potter. I didn't grow up and survive in that fucking hell-hole called an orphanage just to be shredded up and discarded like a rabid dog, brother. You were the one that was supposed to be the Goddamned horcrux, not me. You were the brainless twit that wanted to spend all his time running around torturing muggles to feed your own fat, sadistic ego. If it weren't for you, I would have already owned this world. It was me who made the Death Eaters what they were. My ingenuity. My ambition. My brains. Do you think they would have followed a pathetic half-blood just because of an old, dead name? I gave your strategies the artistry they needed to lure the rich and the powerful. It was me, brother, and you never saw that. You and your shortsightedness set us back a hundred years."

Voldemort's iron control seemed to have been shattered, because he began ranting in explicatives at the preppy little yuppie pureblood wannabe. "You wretched, pathetic worm," Voldemort snarled, mixing Parseltongue with English in his blind anger. "You never had the guts to do what it takes to make our ambitions happen. You were weak. You couldn't even cast the cruciatus, you were so pathetic. Always looking to the imperius or the killing curse, you didn't understand that pain was the instrument through which you forge fortitude. Look at the Potter brat, for God's sake. All his life, he was kicked around like a fucking rag-doll, a worthless ragamuffin abused and beaten up and humiliated by muggles, and all of it turned him into a mindless soldier. A fighting machine, despite the fact that his only claim to fame is a dead mother and a resounding mediocrity. And still he comes out on top every single Goddamned fucking time, and it's because he understands pain. He'll never flinch; he'll never lose that one critical second in battle to wipe the blood from his eyes, or to gaze in horror at his own broken fingers. He is the horcrux I always wanted, not you, you imbecile."

Harry wasn't sure which part of Voldemort's vitriol he found more appalling. The fact that Voldemort would have liked to have had him as a horcrux, or the fact that Voldemort seemed to have some measure of respect for him amidst his litany of insults. Still, Harry couldn't help but smile inwardly as he saw Griffin flinch from Voldemort's verbal attack.

"None of that matters now," Griffin replied stiffly, as he fixed his eyes on Voldemort. "I am the victor, and you have lost. Go with God, Voldemort. There is no more for you on this mortal coil. Not now that Nagini and Raven have been destroyed." Griffin then reached forward and began twisting the spike that ran through Voldemort's heart, so that it gored Voldemort more fully, causing fresh blood to spill down his torso in rivulets. Voldemort was forced to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut to deal with the pain, but not even that could hide the agony he felt as tears slipped down his face and his breathing came out shallowly and in fast rasps. Voldemort was dying, and Griffin was killing him.

Harry wasn't exactly sure why, or where or how it was that he came to be thinking the thought that he was thinking, but now that it was in his mind, he was certain it was the right course of action. You have to save him, Harry thought grimly. You've no chance of surviving this mess without him, whether you like it or not. Besides, he's yours to kill, not some half-assed horcrux bitch. Still, Harry wasn't sure how to go about doing that, precisely. He himself was drained, physically and magically, and was in the process of continually being drained so that he had next to no magic with which to effectuate a plan of escape. But of course, that was why he needed Voldemort.

Tentatively, Harry lowered his flimsy occlumancy barriers and began to probe around in his brain for that indefinable psychic link that always reminded him he was not alone. Stepping through to the other side, Harry found, unsurprisingly, that he was met with a really large wall, which he had no hope of penetrating forcibly. Consequently, he simply proceeded to knock.

"Voldemort, you in there?" he called, hoping the Dark Lord would hear him.

After a minute's passage, the wall seemed to grind and shift, and a door appeared where there had not been one previously. "Potter?" Voldemort rasped, his mental image adorning the myriad of wounds that his physical body had.

"yeah," Harry said. "It's me."

"Bloody wretched time for you to be calling, isn't it?"

"I'm not exactly here to ask for a cup of tea. Do you want me to save your worthless hide or not?" Harry asked.

Voldemort eyed him beadily. "What's it to you?"

Harry just rolled his eyes. Fuck, we don't have time for this. "Call it my Gryffindor weakness. Now get your ass over here before you're dead."

Voldemort reluctantly complied, as he seemed to understand Harry's harebrained plan. "The further I move into your mind, the further I can take control of your faculties."

"Whatever, just do it and get us the hell out of here," Harry muttered.

"Trust me, Potter, I don't like this anymore than you do. The last time we did this, I was holed up in my bedroom for weeks."

"Yeah, well, leave when I tell you to, and we won't have any problems."

As they went further and further into Harry's own mind, Harry felt himself fading, his mental image turning translucent and sinking into the nether reaches of his own mind as Voldemort executed a possession.

God, I hope I know what I'm doing, Harry thought, sighing wearily. Please, let this day just end.

Unlike before, when Voldemort had entered him forcibly at the end of his fifth year, Harry didn't feel the overwhelming, omnipresent agony that had afflicted him at that time. Consequently, he was able to observe with a little more attentiveness. The first thing he noticed was the feeling of duplicity, as though everything inside his mind had a shadow, or an echo, or maybe just a dark half. And then, on top of that, he felt as though, when he looked out at the bewildered faces of Hermione and Griffin, who were arguing over Voldemort's now disappearing body, he could see everything in Technicolor, as though his mind were sharper, more focused. I wonder if this is how Voldemort sees the world, or if it's just a side effect of the possession, he mused, watching as Voldemort vapourized the spikes that had been pinning Harry to the wall. Separately, they lacked the magical energy to free themselves, but together, with only one set of spikes holding them down, Voldemort was able to employ all his energy to liberating them.

Harry watched amused as Griffin and Hermione gazed in horror at Harry's rising body, and Harry suspected that they were cluing into what exactly he and Voldemort had done. No doubt my now glowing red-green eyes are a big hint. Voldemort raised Harry's one good hand and pointed it directly at Griffin's hart. "Pity about the anti-apparation wards on this place," Voldemort snarled through Harry's mouth. "Not much place for you to run to, now is there?"

"You still can't take us," Hermione said, the trembling in her voice betraying her fear. Silently, Voldemort sent a reductor curse her way with as much force as he could manage. Hermione, pale-faced and wide-eyed, raised a shield, which Griffin threw all his magic behind. The blasting hex obliterated their combined shield and sent Hermione staggering backward with a large bruise forming on her now torn shirt.

Griffin whirled around to face the creature that could only be described as the Dobbharrymort and, in a fit of rage, began duelling Dobbharrymort with all the ferocity of a bear protecting her cubs. In Dobbharrymort's weakened state, he managed to overtake Griffin only slightly, backing him into a corner, where he surely would have been killed, if it weren't for Hermione's intervention.

Dammit, Voldemort, get us the fuck out of here, Harry screamed as a roasting hex seared Harry's arm. Voldemort didn't seem to be listening, and, in a drastic attempt to make the Dark Lord listen, Harry began pushing at Voldemort, trying to eject him from his body.

What the blazes are you doing, boy? Voldemort asked.

Getting your attention you bloody, venereal dildo. You can't win this.

I can. Watch me.

Harry winced as he felt his arm get skewered by a flaming barbed whip. Well, Hermione's nothing if not creative, Harry thought absently as he fought to take control of his own body.

"Stop that, Voldemort whined.

"Then get the fuck out of here. Now.

Fine, fine. Voldemort scaled back his attacks and began maneuvering his way to the stairwell. Hermione caught on quickly and tried to block his exit, but he was still magically very strong, and with twice the strength and twice the recovery speed, he was regaining his energy quickly enough, despite the onslaught by the two powerful individuals he was fighting. Eventually, Voldemort made it down the stairs, managing to collapse it before Hermione and Griffin could follow.

Good, Harry thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Now let's split. Voldemort complied and the pair escaped Azkaban, alive, mostly, and intact, sort of.


	7. Fallout

Chapter Seven

Fallout

Remus rubbed his temples wearily. He was certain, now more than ever, that Harry James Potter was going to be the death of him. Even the mention of his name tended to bring on a headache the size of Lord Voldemort's ego, and there seemed to be no end in sight. He, like so many other Order members, were once again gathered around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, Mrs. Weasley's stew conspicuously absent, as Kingsley Shacklebolt explained the unbelievable events that occurred at Azkaban prison just hours prior.

"And there you have it," Kingsley said, throwing his copy of the report down on the table. "Enough magical discharge to eat through half the prison walls. four floors completely ruined, eighty-two inmates vapourized. The only known escapees include Lucius Malfoy and Stan Shunpike, of all people." Kingsley shook his head as though he couldn't believe it. "You-Know-Who himself and the Boy-Who-Lived. Wish I could have seen it, actually."

"And we've no clue whether either of them have survived," Tonks said, sighing.

"Harry'll return here if he's alive," said Fred.

"Yeah, well, he'd better not," replied Kingsley. "He's a loose cannon. What was he thinking going after Azkaban?"

"He was thinking about doing what was right, instead of what was easy," answered Ginny hotly. "Don't you go disparaging Harry Potter just because he's got the guts to face the Ministry and You-Know-who."

Kingsley just stared at Ginny as though she'd grown a second head, before turning to Moody and levelling a gaze that said plainly, Why in the world are snot-nosed brats attending these meetings?

Moody just shrugged as if to say, You try and stop them.

Remus just rubbed his temples wearily. "Okay, so Harry may or may not be dead, and You-Know-Who may or may not be dead. Wonderful. Except that even Harry knows he can't win in a firefight against You-Know-Who, because of these horcruxes."

"He may not have had much choice," Moody said. "I reckon You-Know-Who's not just going to let him go if they run into one another."

Remus nodded. "I suppose we can't fault him for that. Besides, if he returns, we at least know he can take care of himself."

"We knew that anyway," Tonks said. "We all saw his little display the night he destroyed the locket."

There were murmurs of assent at that.

Remus sighed wearily and wondered yet again when exactly the war had gotten away from them. It seemed as though, ever since the death of Albus Dumbledore, and, if he were being honest with himself, before that, even, that all they really did in the Order was gossip. He remembered Sirius once inviting him to go for a jaunt to Malfoy Manor to prank his cousin, Narcissa. Remus had scoffed at him and had berated him then, but now, looking back, he wondered if maybe it would have kept Sirius alive. Sirius had always been thoughtless, but maybe the Order needed a little thoughtlessness. A little recklessness in the Marauder vein to keep it fresh.

Not that Remus was prepared to voice these thoughts. Ever since Sirius's death, he had glimpsed firsthand what the Order members really thought of him. Those who didn't think he was dangerous thought he was only half a wizard, capable of performing only half the spells. His only role had been to spy out the werewolves, which had proven mostly futile. He had neither the inclination to go into werewolf dens, nor the kind of personality to impersonate them. There was no way he was ever going to get close enough to Fenra Grayback to kill him, or at least, draw some of his power and support away. Sirius could have done it, Remus mused. Sirius had that sort of charisma, and that sort of raw magical prowess.

Again, it didn't matter now. It seemed to Remus that a lot of things stopped mattering. After the Order meeting came to an end, he took a bottle of fire whisky and a shot glass up to his room, where Tonks was already waiting. He handed her the shot glass, which was now full of the potent liquid and then took a swig from the bottle. when he was done, Tonks was wordlessly holding out the shot glass for a refill. This continued for a good fifteen minutes, until the first waves of intoxication hit them, at which point, Remus tossed the bottle to one side and, his amber eyes glinting, he pushed Tonks onto their bed and began to rip off her clothes with his teeth.

'Bite me," she breathed, as Remus licked her torso from her navel to her collar bone, enjoying the shudders that past through her as he rubbed his warm, wet tongue across her nipples. And, like so many nights before, he complied, nipping at her throat, leaving little scars that would take a long time to heal, sending his lycanthropic poison rushing through her system, making her weak and strong at the same time, inviting and dangerous, like a drug.

Tonks moaned.

"Again," she said, cutting away his trousers and his shirt and wrapping her legs around him as he came for another pass with his tongue, two of his fingers gently tracing the folds of her skin along her vagina. She leaned up into his neck and bit him in return, drawing blood and grinding against his pelvis with her own. They worked each other for some time, taking moments to tease one another, and sometimes just forcing the climax.

It was a strange sort of relationship, Remus would sometimes think during moments of extreme lucidity, which often came on the cusp of sleep. They didn't speak much to one another. They had very little in common. Down-trodden aging werewolf on the one hand, and vivacious, young metamorphagus on the other. The only things they shared in common were their respective feelings of isolation, their burgeoning alcoholism and their desire to have sex with one another. Apparently it was enough, because Remus would eventually propose to her, and they would eventually get married, and he would eventually maul and kill her.

Days past, and not a single sighting of Harry Potter, the Chosen One, was made. Some speculated that he had finally gone off and abandoned them, and others figured he'd just gone into hiding to lick his wounds. Most of the good witches and wizards of magical Britain had become ambivalent over the Chosen One. Many no longer knew whether he was a hero or a villain or some strange combination of the two. The Ministry had had difficulty covering up the battle between Harry and Voldemort, and, with the recent bad press that Harry had been receiving, these new reports just added to the confusion. Magical people weren't exactly the most critical thinkers in the world, but the tennis match fluctuations over him had finally managed to forge a healthy dose of skepticism amongst the people, regarding the newspapers ability to publish unbiased accounts of Harry's psyche. Still, the facts of the situation did not lie. Harry was powerful, and it was not clear where this power had come from, nor was it clear what Harry's intentions were to do with it. All that led to a prevailing uncertainty that culminated in a lot of whispering.

Harry himself couldn't care less one way or the other what people were saying about him, not that he knew anyway, since he had holed himself up in muggle London and was not privy to the contents of the Daily Prophet. He had stopped caring long ago what the papers said. He'd stopped caring after Sirius's death. At the moment, the only thing on his mind was how to deal with the snafu that had manifested itself.

Hermione Granger.

He still couldn't believe it. The jumped up little know-it-all mudblood. Harry reflected back on his life, which is something he did often these days, and found yet another memory in which Hermione had been completely underappreciated. The Firebolt. Harry shook his head to clear it of the memory of McGonagall confiscating it and instead turned to his most immediate concern. His left hand. Whatever Voldemort had done, or whatever his body had to do to survive his encounter with Voldemort at the prison, his hand ended up getting axed, permanently. He found that, despite being able to regrow whole organs within seconds, and despite his ability to survive on magic alone, even when he had lost vital amounts of blood, Harry Potter could not simply regrow his left hand. His first attempts had proven to be excruciating, and had resulted in a deformity the likes of which Harry never wanted to see again. He still shivered when he recalled the cracked, blinking eyeball that had oozed out of his wrist when he had tried to regrow his hand. So never trying that shit again, he thought.

On the upshot, Harry found he could fashion a new hand, much like Voldemort had done for Wormtail during his resurrection. Unfortunately, Harry also discovered that he wasn't that good at complex transfigurations, and this one seemed to be about the most complex there was. Not to mention the fact that the hand in question inevitably became highly magical with the natural energies dispersing off his body, and that had proven to produce undesirable side effects. In one case, his graphite hand had actually tried using sign language to communicate with him before getting frustrated and trying to strangle him to death. No, Harry was not attempting that again. I'm not growing a body part that's going to develop a mind of its own, he thought. And even despite that disadvantage, the hand had proven to be quite useless in conducting magic, and that would simply not do.

No, Harry needed something else. He needed something that was intricate, distinctive, elegant, robust and preferably cool-looking.

And that's how Harry ended up at the robotics department at the University of Texas.

"You want what, exactly?" Professor Lang asked, no small amount of incredulity in his voice.

"You heard me, Professor," Harry replied evenly. "I want a cybernetic hand so advanced, it could win you the Nobel prize." Then, as an afterthought, he added. "And I want it to run on magic. Preferably with some sort of magically shielded exterior."

"Right," Lang said, the light from a nearby window highlighting his skeptical expression. "What's your name, again, kid?"

"Harry."

"Hmm, well, Harry, the problem with your request is that it's impossible on two fronts. First of all, technological advancements would have to occur before such a prosthesis could be created, and secondly, magic would have to exist for said prosthesis to run on it." Lang leaned back in his chair and stared at Harry levelly, waiting for him to respond to what he thought was a rather infallible argument.

Harry just said nothing, instead choosing to consider his next few words. It wasn't as though he didn't know that this line of questioning would bring him to the point of ridicule, it was just that he wasn't quite sure how else to phrase his request. Besides, he had to start somewhere.

Lang seemed to take his silence as bafflement and began ruffling papers as if to ignore Harry. "Please see yourself out at anytime, young sir," said Lang, who was making a point of not looking at Harry.

Harry meanwhile, enjoyed just looking around at the office, which was spacious enough for a Professor, and which had a large desk and an even larger bookshelf, with a whole whack of fancy sounding tomes on everything from biochemistry, to neurology to electrical engineering. "I'd figured of all the people here, you would have been most up to the task," Harry said conversationally, wandlessly conjuring a squashy leather armchair and sitting himself down.

Lang looked up from a paper that he was reading and eyed Harry sternly, taking only a moment to glance at the chair that had appeared in his office. "Are you still here?"

"It appears I am," Harry said, leaning down next to his chair and drawing out a long, finely sharpened kitana-esque sword that he took to idly waving in Lang's face.

Lang's eyes, understandably widened before he slammed backwards, sending his chair skidding nearly a foot until it banged against the wall behind him. "Where'd that come from?" Lang asked breathlessly, his gaze tracking the graceful movements of the sword as they cut through the air.

"It's magic, of course," Harry replied, a hint of smugness in his voice.

"Right, of course," Lang said faintly. It was moments like those that made Professor Lang wish he had his own security detail. "Er, tell you what," Lang said warily. "I'll get right on that. Tomorrow - no, tonight, - no better yet, today, right this second, even. Just, go take a stroll somewhere and come back when I've had a chance to ponder the issue a bit."

Harry smiled benignly in response to Lang's cheap attempt to get rid of him. "I thought you may wish to see a demonstration of magic first," Harry suggested.

"Er, okay," Lang said, his eyes never leading the sword and a fresh wave of sweat streaking down his now flushed face as the blade passed by ever so closely to his skin.

"Excellent," Harry said enthusiastically and vanishing the blade. "Now, what would you like to see?"

Lang just stared, mouth agape, and looking about Harry's person for the location of the impossibly long sword that Harry had been holding. Lang then shook himself and said, "Just do something truly impossible."

Harry smiled widely and said, "Thought you'd never ask."

Eventually, Harry would get a hand. It would be a very cool hand, that consisted of some very funky circuitry, electromagnetic shielding, high carbon surgical steel, rubber, polyesters, and, most importantly, the first magical-electrical interface in existence, and the prototype for future magitek weaponry.

Harry's eyes glittered with anticipation as he sat in the antiseptic calm of Professor Lang's private laboratory. There were high tech gizmos of all kinds, including a giant robotic arm used for hauling heavy machinery, and all of it was bathed in one hundred forty watt fluorescent bulbs that shone intense white light down on everything in the room. Harry himself was sitting in a high-backed leather chair and his left arm was strapped down in the armrest, with the stump sticking out over the edge. It had taken a long time, nearly two months of exclusive, intensive study with no less than a score of underlings, all of whom were either bribed, blackmailed or controlled with the imperius, and over three hundred thousand pounds, which consisted of nearly half Harry's total fortune, in order to finally develop the prosthesis to all Harry's specifications. The hand was magically soldered to Harry's wrist, where several razor-sharp needles dug into his skin and which were designed to draw on the ambient magical energy in his body.

"It should take some time for your magic to retrain the nerves and integrate them with the magical output of the prosthesis," Lang said, fitting the hand into his body. Lang had expected the strange being before him to at least flinch when the sixteen magic conductors were driven into his wrist, but Harry did not so much as blink. Lang would just add this unnerving eccentricity of the child to the already long list of Harry's unnerving eccentricities that he had mentally catalogued in his mind. "Right then," Lang said, standing back and staring at the attachment. He had to admit that the hand blended in perfectly with Harry's body. It was not abnormally large or abnormally small, nor were the joints disproportionate or awkward. It was perfect, he realized, just as Harry expected, and with a simple pair of gloves, no one would be able to tell the difference. Just have to go out and buy some, he thought, before correcting himself. Conjure them, I mean.

Harry, meanwhile, just stared down at his hand, studying it, observing it as it lay dormant. He had spent a long time in the US. It had not taken him long to realize that the US was a biomedical and engineering juggernaut, and that, if there were any place in the world that could do what he wanted, he would find it there. And now he had. He couldn't help but marvel at the design, at the feel of it, at the look of it. It already felt like it were a part of him, as though it completed him in some way that flesh had never quite been able to do.

"Like I said," Lang went on. "Just leave it be for a day, get used to it, and then we'll see how well it functions. Surely there must be a bug or two that we'll have to work on. I'm confident we'll-" Lang stopped as Harry flexed his new hand.

Harry broke the straps that bound his arm and lifted his new hand into the air so that it was just inches from his face. He flexed it once and then twice and then formed an iron hard grip - one which could reduce rocks to sand, and he found that there was only one word to express his feelings at that point in time. "Groovy."

London was a pretty big place. It was busy and full of smog and people all jostling about to hold onto their own little bit of space in a city that was possessed of many different eras blended together in an architectural, economic, social and cultural patchwork. If there was one word that Harry found to describe the place, it was that there was a lot of clutter. Everywhere he looked, he found a plethora of images all seeking to assault him, a plethora of sounds all clambering to be heard. It made Harry aware of the tediousness of urban life, the perennial sense of change that one could not help but bear witness to day after day. It was a place where you learned and learned, but never remembered.

That was why Harry found himself taking refuge atop the tower bridge. Dressed all in black and only barely visible as a dark speck to those passersby down below who bothered to look up, Harry stood motionless, the winds blowing down the river streaming his hair back, his cape fluttering ceaselessly behind him as he stared out towards infinity. It was there, atop unknown tonnes of concrete and steel and who knew what else that he found solace from the tumult of his life. It was a place where solitude was made tangible, where the sounds of London were torn to shreds by the prevailing winds, never quite able to make it to the top of the bridge and, most importantly, where the only thing to see for miles upon miles was the blank vastness of God's grey sky. It made Harry acutely aware of his smallness, and he found he liked that.

The top of the tower that held the suspension wires for the bridge was tapered, but still large enough to comfortably hold three or four people standing. In the midst of Harry's quiet contemplation, Lord Voldemort silently apparated onto the bridge, now only mere feet separating the rivals.

"Voldemort," Harry said, not appearing either perturbed or surprised at the Dark Lord's sudden appearance.

"Potter," replied Voldemort.

This appeared to be all that would be exchanged between the two, at least for the moment. Harry made no move to acknowledge his enemy any further, and instead continued studying the clouds that were drifting lazily toward the horizon, content to let his mind drift through the random whorls of memories that tended to accost him these days. It was as though his life was flashing before his eyes, albeit slowly and only intermittently.

Ever since their tacit truce during the Azkaban fiasco, Harry had gained a new kind of respect for the Dark Lord, just as he suspected the Dark Lord had gained a new kind of respect for him. Having reflected on it, he came to the conclusion that, having shared minds so deeply and intimately in their concerted effort to escape, they learned from one another in a way that they never could have otherwise. Harry had, during his musings, come to the tangential conclusion that now, after all this time, and all they had come through, he had finally become the Dark Lord's equal. They were both powerful, intelligent and cold. They both suffered, and they both had the scars to prove it. But, most important of all, they both had mangled souls, each one being only half-alive. It was for this reason that Harry felt only a deep serenity while standing in the presence of his mortal enemy. He knew that Voldemort wanted to at least speak to him one last time, because he himself wanted to speak to Lord Voldemort.

"How is Lucius?" Harry inquired, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.

"He is strong and powerful, just as he has always been. The dark magic that flows through him sees to it."

"That's good," Harry said, turning to glance at Voldemort. "I would hate it if your efforts had gone to waste."

"Mm, I would have been most disappointed, yes," Voldemort agreed. "His magic is strong, as is his will."

Harry nodded. "I felt it in him. When I destroyed his home."

"Ah, yes, I wondered who exactly perpetrated that event. Beautifully executed, I might add. Lucius was most aggrieved. The flames penetrated all the way down to the catacombs where some of his most prized possessions were stored. There was truly nothing left of the place."

"I thought it was rather inspired, if I do say so myself."

"And how is Mr. Shunpike?" Voldemort asked.

Harry just shrugged. "I think he's muddled his way back onto the Knight Bus. Goes by the name of Dan Fundike."

"I confess I did not understand your purpose for retrieving him."

"Harry smiled benignly. "Oh, rest assured, Stan is of no consequence. I was merely toying with the Ministry. Besides, breaking Azkaban was good experience."

"You do realize that I still intend to kill you," Voldemort said, his words more of a statement than a question.

Harry nodded. "I would be rather disgusted with you if you didn't. And don't worry. The intent is mutual."

Voldemort nodded in acknowledgement of Harry's words, before going on, "I realized after the incident at Azkaban that I don't really want you as a soldier. It simply wouldn't make sense. Even if you were perfectly obedient, and even though you would be a formidable assassin, I would not experience the victory that I so crave. The victory that will only come when I rip your soul from your body, and when I watch the life leave your eyes."

"Well that's a Kodak moment, if I ever heard one," Harry commented.

"You make fun, but you understand it too. I sensed it in you."

"Just as I sensed that you're mortal," Harry replied, a touch of smugness having crept into his voice.

"Hmm, yes. I couldn't exactly hide that."

"No, you couldn't."

"Just as you couldn't hide the fact that you're not really human anymore. You're not even completely alive. I had my suspicions, of course. the ability to regrow whole limbs is not intrinsic to the magic of humans. If it were, we would all be immortal."

"Yeah, I was pretty surprised when I found my injuries healed after my duel with Nagini."

Voldemort fell silent for a moment, choosing instead to gaze out at the world.

It was Harry who spoke next. "How did you find me here, if you don't mind me asking?"

Voldemort pointed to the tower of London. "I was conversing with the ravens, actually."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "The ones with the clipped wings?"

Voldemort shrugged. "Sort of. The magic that resides in the Tower is old magic. Some of the oldest on this island. Ever since my downfall in 1981, I have taken due time to ponder the nature of it. Old magic is something indefinable by its very nature. It is something intuited, felt viscerally. It is the thing that makes us wizards and witches, as opposed to users of an energy source. It is what makes us better than muggles."

"Ah, I was wondering when the pureblood drivel was going to rear its ugly head," Harry said.

Voldemort then did something completely unexpected. He bitch-slapped Harry across the face, leaving a bruise that was rapidly healing. "You hit me!"

"Because you're an idiot, Potter," Voldemort replied scathingly. "Stop for one moment and pretend that Albus Dumbledore isn't the omnipotent God that he's befuddled you into believing he is. Contrary to the faint delusion that some of the Order members are clinging to, he did not stage his own pitiful death as part of an ingenious master plan to catch me fourteen moves from now."

"What does that have to do with pureblood supremacy?" Harry asked.

Harry found himself getting bitch-slapped once more. "Did I say pureblood supremacy, Potter?" Voldemort paused, and Harry got the impression that he was actually waiting for Harry to respond.

"No," Harry said grudgingly. "You didn't."

"If an angel, or a deity of some kind came down this very second and communicated with you, tried to explain how it was connected to some of the deepest, oldest most wondrous energy that makes up the universe, wouldn't you have the humility and mental faculties to grasp that you are an inferior being?"

"Er, well, yes, but that doesn't make us Gods."

Slap.

"Did I say it makes us Gods?" Voldemort asked. "Don't you even understand how to form a simple conclusion?"

"Apparently not," Harry said dryly, as he rubbed his cheek, more out of habit than anything.

"The relationship is the same. We are part of something. Something more than just a valuable power source. something that-"

"Can we skip the philosophy and get to the point?" Harry cut in, already bracing himself for another hit. Fortunately, none came. "I just want to find out how this whole thing ties in to the killing muggles part."

"I have no interest in muggles," Voldemort said dismissively. "I don't even have an interest in mudbloods and halfbloods."

"So you're just using the purebloods," Harry reasoned.

"Precisely."

"Why, though?"

Voldemort shrugged. "Because I enjoy it."

"Don't you want power? Immortality?"

"Power, yes, immortality, not exactly."

"But-"

Voldemort raised a hand to forestall Harry's protests. "No doubt I have sought out immortality, but it is not a means in and of itself. If it were, I would have simply retired after creating my horcruxes and persisted in relative obscurity. Certainly no one would have bothered me if I elected to lay dormant, to remain inconspicuous. In fact, I could have sought out a position as the Minister of Magic, or even the Headmaster of Hogwarts. By now, I could be running this country however I see fit, with all my soldiers in a myriad of key places. Surely, if you've gone to the trouble of locating my horcruxes, you would have noted that I was in the Slug club, that I was a prodigy with connections to an old family and a powerful following of influential purebloods. Remaining vaguely neutral, I could have secured thrice the influence and power that I possessed at the height of my reign. I could have easily secured immortality. I could have placed one of my horcruxes in the Chamber of Secrets and guarded it with my basilisk, which would have been virtually infallible."

Harry found himself listening with rapt attention to Voldemort. Despite all his efforts, he couldn't find a single flaw in Voldemort's plan. He saw firsthand how far Tom Riddle had to fall to work at a place like Borgin & Burkes, and had wondered even as he saw that why it was that Riddle chose obscurity as opposed to grabbing more power and continuing on the upswing. Eventually, Harry fell upon a decent sounding reason. Slowly, he said, "But you would have been dragged further and further into the spotlight. It would have been next to impossible to learn and execute all the dark rituals that you had undergone."

Voldemort nodded. "Somewhat impossible, though I imagine that, with enough allies in high places, and with access to the Department of Mysteries, much of my work would already have been accomplished."

Harry thought furiously. "But you don't want allies. You want servants, or, at least, you want to dominate, and you couldn't have gotten that if you played by the rules."

"Go on."

"What you need are disaffected pureblood bourgeois and aristocratic types with old money who are driven to follow you through their own addiction to dark magic and through their disillusionment with the system."

"Precisely. If I gave them what they wanted, they would have deposed me eventually. Remember, I am a half-blood, and with my obviously muggle name, it would have been impossible to hide that fact. As it stands, I had to re-invent myself. Only a select few from my time at Hogwarts could have attested to my muggle origins. As a Parselmouth, it is enough proof for those who doubt that I am the heir of Slytherin. In addition, I have studied acutely the dark arts and have driven myself further than anyone else ever has.Now, none of my followers would dare oppose me."

"But you have to give them mudbloods and muggles," Harry concluded.

"I assure you it bothers me not, Potter," Voldemort said, dismissing the issue. "There are billions of muggles out there. Purebloods do not even have a clue as to how to dispatch them. I doubt even the most ardent of them, like Lucius, even care to eradicate them altogether. They just want an outlet through which to stew in their own sadistic urges. I care nothing for them, nor do I care for their victims."

"You care for nothing," Harry said, realizing for the first time just what it was that drives Voldemort, and, conversely, that which drives himself. "I've nothing here," Harry said quietly, almost mournfully. "I look around, and I see nothing but a wasteland. I'm like a deformed piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I don't fit anywhere."

"Fitting somewhere would be nice, I do admit," Voldemort said, "but it will never happen, Potter. You will never go become an Auror, as you once dreamt of doing. Nor will you spawn children. You will do what you have always been meant to do. You will hunt and kill. It makes little difference whether it is me or the next Dark Lord, as I am sure there will be, should you succeed. You will be eternally driven."

"That applies to you to," Harry countered. "Would you really be satisfied with just Britain? What good would it do you? Even if you had the entire country under your thrall, you would not be happy. You can no more stop than I can. There will be no getting drunk and fat and old with your power, because it will never be enough."

Voldemort nodded. "We're both monsters, you and I."

"Except that I'm fighting for the people you seek to torture," Harry said, shaking his head. "You can't make me forget that."

"Can't I?" Voldemort inquired. "Do you not think that I am unable to shatter the fanciful delusion that you still cling to? Let me ask you this, then. Suppose you did in fact destroy my body, but, instead of rubbing me out of this world as you had hoped, I found a way to possess another being. Let's say a rat, for example. What would you do?"

"I'd go after you," Harry said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And when you found me?" Voldemort pressed.

"I'd kill you," Harry answered, still doing so in a tone that suggested Voldemort was an idiot for even asking.

"And if I survived and managed to move to another rat?"

"Then I'd kill that one too."

"And another?"

Harry just nodded. "yeah, I'd fucking kill all the Goddamned rats in the world to get you. So what?"

"And if," Voldemort continued, electing to ignore Harry's outburst, "if after the rats, I moved to possessing dogs?"

Now Harry hesitated for a moment, but, after reflection, he said in an uncharacteristically somber voice, as though he knew where this was suddenly leading, "yeah, I reckon I'd kill the dogs too."

"And, what if I became so good at possession, that I could fluidly possess humans?" Voldemort asked. "What would you do then, Potter?"

To this question, Harry did not answer.

However, it seemed that Voldemort was not interested in hearing Harry's response anyway, for he said, "You need not say anything to me, Potter. It's a question for your own mind. Perhaps, when you have answered it, you will understand what you really are. You will understand the full consequences of tearing your soul in half, for no longer being truly alive." And with that, Voldemort gave a sweeping glance across the land, where millions upon millions of people, magical and muggle alike, toiled away in obscurity. "When we meet again, we will duel to the death. Good-bye, Potter."

Harry just stared unseeingly at Voldemort, who, after saying his parting words, silently apparated away.

"GOD FUCKING SLUT!" Hermione shrieked, hurling a really old and rather expensive book across the Parkinson dining hall, where it soared past Pansy's still beating heart, which sat idly on a white, Japanese-style dinner plate. Even before it hit the wall, the book burst into flames and disintegrated to ash.

Griffin meanwhile, was slumped in one of the dining chairs, a piece of half-eaten brain jelly still speared on the end of his fork. His hair was mussed, and his eyes unfocused, as he had been drinking heavily. Occasionally, he would throw a glance Hermione's way to see if she were still pacing restlessly about, and, after ascertaining that she in fact was, went back to staring off into space.

It had been several days since Azkaban, and Hermione still couldn't believe the events that had unfolded during the prison. They were supposed to have rubbed out both Potter and Voldemort in one clean, fluid step, effectively paving the way for their ascension as emperors to the new world order they were supposed to be creating. But, of course, that didn't happen.

And the reason that it most definitely did not happen was due to the existence of one Harry James Potter.

Bloody Potter, Hermione silently raged, her magic coiling and uncoiling inside her, desperately searching for a target upon which to release her frustration. She and Griffin, after recovering from the firefight, had gone on a mindless killing spree in order to satisfy their dark urges. A killing spree that ultimately landed them in the Parkinson family home and eating the Parkinson family's organs. As enjoyable as it all was, it failed to quench the underlying discontent that plagued her. No, there was only one thing that would do, she realized, coming to a full stop and eyeing Pansy's heart. It beat once and a pool of blood spurted out one of its ventricles. Yes, Hermione thought fiercely, the dark twinkle returning. If I can't have Potter, then I'll at least have his allies.

"Griffin!" she commanded imperiously, and, upon seeing him in his dishevelled state, immediately pursed her lips in a McGonagall sort of way.

"Mmm," Griffin managed as he tried to wipe drool from his lip.

'Get up, you worthless cad. We're going to pay a visit to the Order."

"The Order?" he asked blankly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, the bloody Order of the Phoenix. We're going to kill people."

At this, Griffin's eyes lit up and his magic immediately began working away the alcohol in order to ready him for the slaughter. "Brilliant," he breathed. "It's been," he paused to check his watch, "ah, yes, it's been six hours since I've last murdered somebody." He delicately plucked the morsel of brain off his fork and chewed thoughtfully.

"All right," Hermione said. "We will strike at eight o'clock. That's when everybody should be around. We can make the biggest splash."

Griffin nodded. "I'll prepare the rune shields."

"Excellent," Hermione said, beaming beatifically and flouncing off to go do her hair.


	8. Getting It On

Chapter Eight

Getting It On

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the acting director of the Order of the Phoenix, stood at the head of the kitchen table at Grimmauld place. "Here, here," he said, tapping his wand on the table and effectively bringing silence to the two dozen or so Order members. "Let it be written that the 7236th meeting of the Order of the Phoenix has commenced." Kingsley then went on to outline the particular items on the agenda for the evening, which an enchanted quill was dutifully writing down on parchment. Once complete, the Order then proceeded to turn their attention to the first item on the list of topics - namely, the search for the horcruxes.

"Ahem," Moody said, stomping over to where Kingsley was standing and taking his place. "The search for the horcruxes has, sadly, failed to yield any results. We've combed through all of Albus's personal possessions, and all the records surrounding the whereabouts of You-Know-Who for the last fifty years in an attempt to track his movements. While we've identified a number of leads, we are still no closer to securing the missing items that contain fragments of his soul. So far, we have identified twelve distinct possible locations that may hold some significance for You-Know-Who, and, of these, we have searched four. We should be able to investigate the remaining-"

Moody's report was cut off by the distinct sound of clapping that was emanating near the entrance to the kitchen. Immediately, all heads turned to stare at the vacant space, including Moody and his electric blue eye, which seemed to be squinting in search of the origin of the sound.

"Who's there?" Moody asked gruffly, his one good eye narrowing and his hand already snaking toward his wand.

Shacklebolt and Tonks did likewise, and, soon, half the Order members were readying themselves for a fight.

"Harry?" Ginny asked uncertainly.

Then, slowly, as if coming into focus, two people materialized. One a girl, and one a boy.

"Hi all," Hermione said cheerfully, looking about the place. She made a show of polishing her nails and looking around. "Not much has changed, it seems."

Griffin was content to remain silent and instead took to leaning against the wall. At the sight of Hermione and the strange boy, half the Order members relaxed their grips on their wands. All of them except the Aurors and the Weasleys.

"Who is he?" Moody asked, gesturing to Griffin, his wand still raised. "And how'd he get past the wards?"

"His name's Griffin,' Hermione replied. "And as for the wards, I just transfigured him and carried him inside."

It was Ginny who responded to this, her eyes never having left Griffin. She pointed one manicured finger to the lean, handsome young adult and said one word. "Horcrux."

This seemed to have the desired effect, for, after the meaning of Ginny's word implanted itself in their minds, they began to realize what it signified, and the lot of them began drawing their wands once again.

"Now, now," Hermione said, waving a finger in an admonishing fashion. "Is that anyway to treat your guests?"

Moody sent a fast, wordless stunner at Griffin, who did not so much as flinch. Even as the spell impacted, he drew his wand and fired a single killing curse at the retired Auror, who dodged. In less than five seconds, the kitchen was filled with the light of spellfire. Together, Griffin and Hermione raised a wandless shield powerful enough to withstand more than half their spells, the remaining ones being absorbed by Griffin's tough constitution. Not unlike the showdown between Raven and the Weasleys at the Burrow, the Order members were locked together in inordinately cramped quarters, and were easily picked off with remorseless killing curses by the dark witch and dark wizard.

"Avada kedavra, avada kedavra, avada kedavra," said Hermione almost lazily, two of her three curses finding live targets.

Griffin did the same, one curse landing on Fred Weasley as he dived in front of his little sister.

Eventually, a particularly fierce bone breaking hex punched through their combined shield and hit Griffin right in the chest, effectively breaking two ribs. As powerful as Griffin and Hermione were, taking on twenty people was a lot. Moody and Kingsley switched to killing curses, having already seen two of their allies dropped and realizing the terrible situation they were in, given the superior magical strength of the dark duo.

"Avada kedavra."

"Avada kedavra."

Griffin and Hermione deftly parted ways, letting both spells slide between them as Hermione conjured a long whip made of flaming razorblades, while Griffin took on Moody and Kingsley in a two-on-one firefight.

Hermione twirled her whip so that it curled around the advanced shield that Bill was using to defend people, and effectively impaling him through the throat from behind. A spray of blood jetted out to either side and momentarily distracted Remus and Tonks, who then had to dive out of the way as the whip came crashing down just moments where they both had been, leaving a smoldering chair behind where Jorge Petersen, one of the less known members had his face stripped off, leaving the white bone of his skull showing, and the pink of his now bleeding gums, before he fell over dead, his brains eventually leaking out of his nostrils. Three stunners impacted Hermione's wandless shield, shattering it and numbing her arm, forcing her to narrow her body as a killing curse sailed by. She brought the whip down in a long curving arc and let it detach itself from her wand, so that it wrapped around George Weasley's wand arm, severing it from the elbow down. Already, Hermione had fired off two killing curses into the milieu of remaining Order members, taking one down while dodging one bone-breaking hex and taking another bone breaking hex in her left arm.

True to form, Hermione did not feel the impact at all, as she had already taken a pain dulling potion before entering the fight, and instead responded with a swift explosion hex to Diggle's head, putting enough force behind it to blow his brains out in all directions. Ginny managed to peg Hermione with a stunner in the thigh, before getting a face full of a severing charm that snaked lacerations across her entire face, causing her to flinch backward and drop her wand as she tried to manually, wandlessly heal herself.

Ginny's stunner had the effect of deadening Hermione's leg, so that she collapsed to the ground, though she managed one more killing curse, which lit up the room in a brilliant flash of green, taking George's life, before Hermione was hit with a pair of stunners to the chest and a bone breaking hex to the shoulder.

Meanwhile, Griffin found himself facing two fearsome aurors, both of whom were magically strong, professional dark wizard hunters and who were backed by loads of experience. Still, the soul bonding ritual he and Hermione had performed had nearly doubled his magical strength, giving him the ability to raise a shield that could deflect ten stunners. He began by firing a pair of killing curses at Moody, who he figured would have difficulty maneuvering with his leg. To his surprise, Moody responded by pirouetting expertly on his wooden leg and firing two killing curses in response, which Griffin had to summon a chunk of wall to intercept, along with a killing curse from Kingsley. Neither seemed to have expected Griffin to be able to summon such a large object and cause it to break away from a fixture as solid as the walls in Grimmauld Place, because Kingsley took an evisceration curse directly to the chest, which ripped him wide open and sprayed blood across the ground as he fell over, an expression of surprise plastered across his face.

This seemed to make Moody even more determined. He began conjuring razor sharp ropes to fly around Griffin's shield, while forcing him to maintain both a magical shield and a physical one to block the killing curse. the three-pronged offensive would have surely downed Griffin if he had not already had his magic so heavily boosted. Even still, he was certain he would have to take a severe hit in order to best Moody and return to his soul mate's side, who, he noted out of the periphery of his vision, was weakening. She had just taken a stunner to the arm. Griffin banished the chunk of wall directly at Moody, who had to arrest his offensive to guide the object out of the way. However, to Griffin's surprise, Moody managed to reverse the banishment, forcing Griffin to abandon another killing curse in favour of stopping the object, which he did, only to have to throw it in the way of a blasting hex, which caused the chunk of wall to explode, and, with a whirlwind hex, the debris all came flying into face, making him cough and turn away from the battle, all the while maintaining a wandless shield and trying to summon something else for whatever Moody might have come up with next. Griffin certainly had not expected Moody to then use a whip much like Hermione's to curl around his shields and slash Griffin across his wand arm, forcing him to drop his wand and throw himself backwards to avoid a slice to his throat. Fuck, he's brilliant, Griffin thought, wandlessly summoning his wand and sending a killing curse at Moody's feet, only to see one of them whirl in the air and the other remain still. But even as the killing curse hit his wooden leg, Griffin realized his mistake. It had no impact.

Moody brought down his wand in a slicing motion, sending two slicing hexes a killing curse and the razor whip, all bearing down upon Griffin, who only barely managed to summon Kingsley's body in the way to absorb all three spells and which he deftly used to entangle Moody's whip.

"YOU -!" Moody shouted, clearly enraged at having his protégé's body used like that, and not finding the right word to express his displeasure. Griffin just took advantage of his opponent's anger and swiftly fired a killing curse with all the speed he could muster. Moody tried to whirl out of the way, but didn't quite make it. The curse clipped him on his arm, the poison of the curse seeping up through his arm and through his shoulder. "AARGH!" Moody roared, but it seemed that there was nothing he could do. However, he wasn't known as a powerful and deranged Auror for nothing. Without hesitating, Moody aimed his wand at his own arm and sent a vicious slicing curse at the ball and socket joint, effectively severing his arm off to keep the poison from completely eating his soul, and then, without missing a beat whirled back on Griffin and fired off one explosion hex after another, each one fueled by his mad fury. His shoulder, meanwhile, continued to spill blood as Griffin just watched, wide-eyed, at the freakish spectacle of a man standing before him. Now that's some serious fucking resolve, Griffin thought as he maintained a shield to absorb the explosion hexes, which, despite the strength of his magic, were managing to ooze past ever so slightly and brush against his body. However, it appeared that Moody was not able to keep up the barrage of attacks. His energy dwindled swiftly, and he grew faint from the blood loss that was driving him toward unconsciousness. Eventually, he fired his last hex before collapsing, his wooden leg detaching itself from his knee and rolling away.

Griffin spent the next moment just continuing to stare at the dying old man in wondrous shock, his gaze occasionally shifting to the lopped off arm. Hearing the sound of a bone breaking hex being uttered to his left, Griffin snapped back to attention and just managed to throw a shield over his partner and deflect the spell back at the caster. The remaining Order members, no more than five, which included Tonks, Remus, Ginny, Doge and Arthur Weasley turned as one to face down Griffin, who had regained his composure and his smugness, and who was now standing and leaning against the wall once more and twirling his wand idly.

"So this is the famed Order of the Phoenix," he drawled, making a show of staring at all the corpses. "I confess I was expecting something a little more... formidable. Pity."

"You're not the same one that killed Ron,' Ginny said shakily.

Griffin raised an eyebrow before answering. "No, young Genevra, I am not. I should think that was rather obvious since one of you lot killed him." Griffin shook his head at Raven's stupidity, oblivious to the fact that he and Hermione went in on a similar suicide mission.

"What are you talking about?" Ginny asked, mystified.

"Raven never survived the assault on the Burrow." Griffin shrugged as though he couldn't care less. "Again, that should have been rather obvious. The only thing that can kill a horcrux is the killing curse. Not that I am a horcrux exactly, but my soul bond with Hermione affords me the same kind of protection, albeit not to quite such a degree."

Ginny, who was the only survivor of the assault on the Burrow, had no response. She wondered briefly whether Griffin were lying. If he were not, then there was a distinct possibility that Ron was still alive, somehow. Determined to seek an answer, she queried in her most commanding tone, "The Burrow had an anti-dark magic ward over it. It was never broken. The killing curse couldn't have been used to destroy the other horcrux."

Griffin considered this for a moment, aware that Ginny was waving a hand at the others to keep them from firing a spell at him. Seeing no harm in answering her question he went on, in a musing tone, "I suppose there are extraordinary forms of magic that could kill a horcrux. I reckon certain creatures could do it, like a basilisk. There's also blood magic, and other more obscure forms of soul magic, like rituals and what not."

Ginny shook her head. "There's no way Ron could have performed some sort of soul magic ritual. Nor was there a basilisk around. Besides, we never even found a body. Just blood."

Griffin nodded. "There are certain types of magic that fuse the soul and the body in such a way as to give them unique abilities. This can occur through possession, for example. I recall Nagini mentioning that the counter-charm that saved the Potter kid's life had a similar effect. That kind of magic could possibly destroy a horcrux." Griffin shrugged once more. "I know very little about it."

Ginny nodded. "Fair enough."

"Why exactly are you here?" Arthur asked, fixing his gaze intently on Griffin, who just pointed at Hermione.

"She wanted to kill people. You, apparently, are what she decided on."

"Hermione decided to do this?" Arthur asked incredulously.

Griffin nodded.

"That's not possible. You must be controlling her. With the imperius, or something."

Griffin smiled. "No, she's just about the darkest, most twisted bitch I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. She introduced me to the joys of cannibalism."

"That can't be," Arthur said despairingly. "Not Hermione. I don't believe you. It's not possible."

"You two are the ones that attacked the Zabinis," Tonks said.

Griffin nodded.

"And you performed the soul binding ritual," Remus added thoughtfully.

Griffin also nodded to this. "She saved me, actually. I suppose I might even owe her a life debt. It's not clear. Regardless, we're soul mates now."

"So it's true then," Remus said wearily. "She really is dark."

"Remus!" Arthur said, turning to face his comrade. "How can you say that."

"Arthur," Remus said gently and with more than a little fatigue. "Tonks told me about the Zabinis. They performed a soul binding ritual. That's why they're so powerful."

"Still-"

"Arthur, you don't understand. A soul ritual like that requires complete cooperation. Complete trust." Remus shot a glance at Griffin before shaking away whatever thoughts were assailing him. "There's just no other explanation. You saw how she acted when she fought. She was practically giddy with excitement. The imperius doesn't do that."

"I know, but," Arthur said. "I just can't believe it."

"She was always terribly academically minded. I suppose if anyone were to turn dark, it would be her."

"So now what?" Ginny asked, her eyes never leaving Griffin.

"I could kill you, I suppose," Griffin said, "but I don't really feel like it. I imagine you'd rather just go home anyway. Take off, and make sure I never see you again." He then added. "When she wakes, she might try to come after you, so I'd pick a good hiding spot."

Tonks pursed her lips and seemed to consider starting a fight, before she glanced over at Moody's and Shacklebolt's bodies, which, she realized the being in front of her killed single-handedly. Thinking better of it, Tonks gently took Remus's hand and pulled him towards the door, never once turning her back on Griffin. "Come on," she said in a subdued voice. "Let's go. We've no hope of surviving here otherwise. It doesn't help that none of us can cast a killing curse."

Griffin, meanwhile, had turned his attention to Hermione, and was already enervating her. Seeing that she was coming around, the others made a hasty escape, before she could have a chance to try and kill them.

More than anything, Harry felt weary. It had been a long three months since he had last been to Grimmauld Place, since he had rather stupidly broken into Azkaban and duelled Voldemort and found out about Hermione's new hobby. In that time, he had done a lot of thinking, ruminating, brooding, obsessing, worrying, and all around good old-fashioned pondering. And now all he wanted was a nice cup of tea, and a chat with some people.

It was with these thoughts that Harry entered the now eerily silent home of Grimmauld Place. Despite the tangible tingle of death that wafted through its deserted corridors, Harry remained oblivious to the fact that Grimmauld Place was more of a tomb than a home. Almost instinctively, Harry went for the kitchen, as he had probably spent most of his time there in previous years, and, more importantly, if anyone were up and interested in making him a cup of tea, there would be where he would find them.

"I can always make my own, he thought, his magic unconsciously coiling about him, as though it sensed what lay beyond the next doorway.

With a snap of his fingers, Harry launched three dozen distinct blue bell flames which immediately fanned out to all the corners of the room to bathe the kitchen in a gentle blue glow. It was then that Harry stopped, as he stood over the threshold of the doorway that led into the kitchen, where now body after dead and mangled body lay tattered, slumped over the table, on the ground, in chairs.

"What the fuck?" Harry asked to no one in particular. He was suddenly aware of the oppressive silence and immediately whirled around, scanning for any sign of the bastards who had done this. There was nothing, but that didn't seem to be enough for his tumultuous emotions, and his magic, which was now rising off his body like steam from a geyser. "There's a bunch of bloody corpses in my house," Harry said, staring around at all the familiar faces of the Order members. "Why the fuck are there corpses in my house?"

Without even really thinking about it, his magic shot out like an arrow and began incinerating the bodies, reacting to Harry's unconscious desire not to have to look at them any longer.

Harry hardly seemed to notice as Fred's face was consumed by flames. He went to the kitchen table and found a single sheet of paper, with Hermione's distinctly feminine handwriting.

Dear Harry,

If you're reading this, then you've obviously discovered my little gift to you. Consider it an early Christmas present.

Harry immediately glanced up to a nearby calendar that was pinned to the wall. Tomorrow was the twenty-first of December. "Bloody hell," he muttered, reading on:

There are so many things I want to say to you. First of all, I want to tell you that I love you, and that I am sorry. It pains me to have to kill you, but really, it's for the good of all muggle kind. You see, I've realized, as has Griffin, that the true plague on society today is not the muggles, but the witches and wizards themselves. I just want you to know that it's nothing personal. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and all that.

Love,

Hermione

Purveyor of the Mudblood Cause

p.s. if you haven't clued in, merely touching this paper will afflict you with a toxic cobra venom.

Harry just stared in disbelief at the words that, in turn, stared innocently back at him. In a moment, the paper burnt to ash in his hands. He glanced at his fingers where the supposed venom would have seeped into his skin, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. He had no clue whether she really had doused the letter in some sort of poison, though he wouldn't have been surprised. "Must be that basilisk shit," he muttered, glancing about and seeing that all the bodies had been vapourized. "Good thing I never told her about it. No doubt she would have found another way to try and kill me."

The first emotion that hit him after having read the letter and realized that death was imminent, was simple bafflement. Harry was simply baffled. It wasn't so much that there was a particular plot point that confused him. It was more that he couldn't quite seem to grasp just how screwy his life had ended up over the last six months. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he realized. He was supposed to have gone off with Ron and Hermione after his birthday, and after Bill and Fleur's wedding, and they were supposed to have done a bunch of research and found horcruxes one by one, with various narrow escapes at each turn. They were all supposed to have been mostly okay, and the trials they faced should have cemented their friendship that much more. He was supposed to have built relationships, connected with people, integrated himself into the Order of the Phoenix, possibly banged Ginny a couple of times - preferably while drunk.

All of that had been ruined. That whole trajectory, that whole plan that had been carefully laid out over the course of his sixth year, all shot to shit and there didn't seem to be a single reason for it. It's because you were a naive little bitch, who thought the Dark Lord would just sit around like a perma-fried pothead, content to send his minions out to do utterly pointless acts of carnage like attack Diagon Alley, which would only serve to cement your resolve without really ever getting in your way.

It's no wonder Hermione ditched your ass, he thought. You were a loser. Still are, when you think about it. Still, you've got to clean this shit up. You've got to clean this shit up, because the longer these fuckheads are running around, the harder it's going to be to kill them, and the more people that you have any vague interest in befriending are going to die horrible deaths. You've got Voldemort killing the muggles, and now you've got these two clowns killing witches and wizards. And they all want to kill you. Lovely.

Real, fucking lovely.

Unlike previous assaults on him and his friends, that old familiar feeling of rage did not consume him, nor did it appear in its new and improved, compact form in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he felt only a numbing emptiness, and a wash of fresh magic that drove him, like a mindless automaton, to do something - anything, and preferably involving lots of carnage.

Harry walked out of Grimmauld Place, the entire building exploding in a burst of flames behind him, the wards shattering, not unlike the many windows that now sprayed broken glass around the burning home.

December 21.

Harry found himself standing atop the tower bridge once more. It was pretty early in the morning, which is the way he liked it. Not being quite six o'clock, London was still half-asleep, the streets only beginning to come to life as people readied themselves for another day of work and Christmas shopping. It was kind of ironic, what he planned to do, since he had decided at some point during his wanderings between his arrival at Grimmauld Place and his present situation, that, if he survived the ensuing fight, he would flee to the muggle world and never look back.

The sky was still a deep, ocean blue, the gentle slope of the asphalt and the cement standing out as somber borders to the myriad of streetlights that shone in endless rows up and down the innumerable criss-crossing streets that made up London's center. As the sun broke over the horizon, its deep golden light touching upon his face, transforming his pale skin to the colour of yellow gold, a burgeoning crest of crimson foreshadowing the bloodbath that would come, Harry began pooling together his magic, oblivious to the streetlights that were winking out below, as the sun's appearance lightened the sky sufficiently such that they were no longer necessary.

Despite being a force that could do just about anything, magic wasn't designed to cause mass destruction. The killing curse, as dreadful as it was, could still only kill people at about a rate of one per second. As Harry had discovered with the Malfoys though, one could always conjure certain items and, with the clever application of muggle concepts, incite pretty major damage. Still, conjuring enough volatile substances to do real damage took a fair bit of time. That is why Harry had to spend a good three minutes pooling enough magic together to generate blasts powerful enough to garner some notice.

You can't just tap people on the shoulder anymore, Harry mused. You have to hit them on the head with a sledge hammer.

After the requisite three minutes had passed, Harry was confident he was ready. Before him hovered a shining white lightning bolt that was perfectly constructed right down to the atomic level. It pulsed, rich with destructive power. "Go forth," Harry commanded softly, his voice carrying despite the torrent of wind that buffeted about him. With an unnatural slowness, the sphere descended, gradually picking up more speed and more speed as it travelled to the ground.

Martha Jodoin was humming "The Battle of Jericho" to herself as she walked down Main Street towards her place of employment. Martha was, for the most part, a good person. She went to church, had a nice job - she'd even taken some time out of her life after high school to go do missionary work in Africa. Martha had good parents who loved her, who supported her through her six abortions, who turned a blind eye when she smoked weed and screwed double-sided dildos with her lesbian friends from university.

It was a surprisingly warm morning for the day of the winter solstice. A fresh fall of snow had hit the previous day, but now the temperatures were back above zero degrees Celsius, and it would not be long before the one to two centimeters of the soft, powdery white substance would devolve into slushy crap, that most Londoners would curse at, as they tried not to get their designer shoes mucked up.

Martha edged her way past a sleeping bum before making her way into a coffee shop, where she secured a cafe au lait. Martha was French by origin, not that she could speak a decent word of it. Still, she refused to call cafe au laits by any other name - surely not the Italian version - cafe latte. To her, it would offend her sense of cultural pride. Similarly, Martha would always cheer for France during the football World Cup, even though she'd never deigned to watch the sport in her life. Secretly though, she preferred fucking Italians over French girls. She found them to be much prettier.

Martha was not what one would call the most sensitive person in the world. Whether it was because she had her first intuitive moment, or because she was worried a bird would shit on her head, she elected to look up at precisely the fourth second before she and her cafe au lait would be vapourized by a streaking blur that resolved itself into a blazing lightning bolt before it hit her.

The blast radius for the lightning bolt, that would send most muggles - even the staunchly atheist ones - fleeing for the nearest church - was fifty metres, or, in other words, the initial blast point would obliterate everything in the shape of a roughly circular disc with an area of almost eight thousand square metres. No less than sixteen buildings were reduced to rubble in the wave of fire and roaring energy that rippled outward, picking up debris with the force of its energy and creating a deadly accretion disc that bludgeoned people to death about a tenth of a second before their bodies were ripped to shreds and burned up in the ensuing flame-energy torrent.

Some people had the opportunity to watch as what looked like a tidal wave tore down the streets, ripping up asphalt and cement and concrete, liquefying or simply snapping streetlamps and sign posts in half and flinging them forward. A few tried to run into buildings, which saved them a few moments, or possibly hours, in which case they would mostly just suffocate to death or die of grievous bodily injuries. One metrosexual male with a grande mocha frappaccino and a toasted whole wheat sesame bagel with low fat garden vegetable cream cheese had a stop sign bash his head in and send him crashing onto his back with whiplash, brain damage and a severed sciatic nerve that left him twitching until his body was engulfed in flame.

"Do you see that?" a kid asked, staring at the carnage. "It's like that movie, Independence Day, with Will Smith!"

"Er, yeah," someone else said. "It doesn't seem to be slowing down any."

The kid blinked, as if realizing that the wave of energy they were watching was in fact approaching them. And, as if a light bulb were turned on in their heads, everybody on that particular street began fleeing. Some legless cripple in a scooter drove smugly by the kid, who tried to grab on and hitch a ride, before being hit in the back with a loose chunk of metal shrapnel. He would not survive, but the legless cripple would.

Towards the outskirts of the blast radius stood the Sunlife building, which was a good one hundred metres high and about thirty storeys. Business people, executives, middle management types and even mailroom lackies all stopped to stare and watch as building after building was swarmed with blindingly bright light. "John, do you see that," Vanessa asked, sipping her coffee.

"Yeah, yeah, I do."

"I think we might be under attack," someone else said. "You wouldn't maybe want to call - I don't know - the police?"

Vanessa rolled her eyes and pointed to a building from which flames were rising. "You mean that police station?"

"Right, never mind. Reckon they've already got the memo."

The energy that had carried the debris to the fifty metre mark petered out around that point, not quite able to reach the Sunlife building. However, the disc of debris still had all of its momentum and continued onward, chunks of all manner of materials, even surprisingly, a used condom, and a diet Pepsi bottle, smashed into the multitude of windows, and sailed right into the building, killing most of the people who were not on the other side or in enclosed spaces like stairwells and elevators.

Vanessa was cleanly decapitated by a high velocity sheet of mostly intact glass that cleaved her right through the throat, like a guillotine. Similarly, John was luckier, sort of. Both his kneecaps were crushed as he tried to dodge a pair of bricks. Eventually, he would be blinded by slivers of glass that would carve up his face, and he would eventually become a serial pedophile that would commit suicide minutes before his capture by the police.

Nothing in London would be the same. Not for a very long time. And that was just the first wave of attacks.

Just as the first lightning bolt completed its life cycle, Harry had constructed another one and sent it crashing down, this time to a different part of the city.

It only took six more bolts before Harry finally got the attention of his dearest friend.

"YOU ASS RAMMING SLUT WHORE!" Hermione's otter patronus shrieked, as it ambled towards him, hovering in midair. "GET YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"

Harry just smirked and gave the otter the finger, before throwing his next bolt through it and down onto the University of London. School's for pussies, anyway, he thought amusedly as he watched their main library take the full force of the blast. He almost thought he could hear Hermione's wail of horror at the sight of so many books being incinerated. Come and get me, you fucking bitch, he thought viciously, already conjuring his next bolt. See how it feels to have your whole life turned to shit.

And with that thought, Harry hit upon the very best target he could have come upon.

Dan and Emma Granger were too stunned by the events unfolding on the television to manage to get to work. Normally, they liked to do a bit of yoga at about five thirty in the morning and then make it to their dental office at around seven thirty, so they could have an hour or so before their patients came in. They were, needless to say, early risers.

It had not taken long for them, in the midst of doing the Sun Salutation, their favourite opening yoga move, to hear on the radio about the waves of destruction that were plaguing London. Politicians, and scientists were scrambling to figure out what was going on, while televangelists were claiming they already knew.

"Sweetie, our practice is on Main Street!" Dan exclaimed, stating the obvious.

"Huh," Emma said, listening to the radio.

"And so, God shall smite the sinners...," Farwell's warbled voice was saying, Harry's overwhelming magical blasts distorting the satellite transmission.

"Please, dear, let's get something local," Emma was saying, her gaze still fixed on the television.

Neither of them noticed the tea kettle in the kitchen whistling, which wasn't a surprise, as footage on the nearest news station showed yet another wave of unbelievable destruction. This time detonating somewhere in London's east side. The cameraman managed to transmit an incoming charred head before the news crew itself were swept up in the destruction. The screen turned to static for just a brief moment before switching to a rattled-looking anchorwoman, whose hands were trembling so violently, she could barely read the script in front of her. "Well, as you can see, firsthand, these waves of destruction are still occurring, and we're no closer to an explanation for their origins. We've recently secured a statement from the police, who have indicated that, whatever is causing these attacks, they are not man-made in origin. Scientists are still hoping to find a cosmological basis for these bombardments, which, they say, won't happen until they can fully investigate the blast centers."

"Not manmade?" Dan asked. "What the fuck do they mean not manmade? That's bullshit. Whatever this is, it's going after all the major centers."

Emma shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what to think. I don't think bombs explode like that. Not nuclear ones anyway, and they would know if it were a nuclear bomb."

Dan just looked at her and said, "When have you ever seen a bomb explode?"

"Er," Emma began, uncertainly. "Saving Private Ryan?"

Dan shook his head. "I don't know, Emma. Maybe. Maybe not. I reckon we should maybe take the car and try to get out of here. Before we're next."

"What about Hermione?" Emma asked suddenly.

"What about her? I imagine she can take care of herself, with that whole teleporting thing," Dan said, getting up and shutting the television off. "Right now, we need to take our car, whatever supplies we can put together in the next ten minutes, and take off for the countryside."

Emma got up to follow Dan, saying, "I meant, what if this is that You-Know-Who fellow's doing? What if this is magical? Maybe we should let her know."

Dan just barked a laugh. "Let her know? And how exactly are we supposed to do that? Send an owl? Bloody ridiculous." Dan sighed and stopped at the foot of the stairs. Realizing he was still holding the remote control, he threw it disgustedly to the side. "Emma, it's time you faced facts. We don't have a daughter anymore."

"Dan!" Emma said, shocked. "You can't mean that!"

"Can't I?" he countered, taking a step toward his wife. "What's her favourite food? Her favourite movie? Hell, what's her favourite book?"

Emma just opened and closed her mouth like a guppy.

"And did you see her the last time she was here? Did you stop to even look at her?" Dan asked, his voice incredulous and full of anger. "And that boy she brought with her?"

Emma did not respond. There was nothing she could really say.

"I was scared of her Emma. I was honest to God scared of her."

Before Emma could react one way or another, either affirming Dan's feelings or berating him for having them, the house was swiftly and surely obliterated, Dan and Emma and all the rest of it. Somewhere high above London, at the top of a famous bridge, a mad wizard cackled.

Meanwhile, Hermione just stared gobsmacked at the vector that Harry's last lightning bolt had taken. Isn't that going to my neighbourhood? she asked wonderingly as the sizzling bolt of energy arced across the sky.

And then, with all her might, she apparated herself as close to her parents home as possible, cursing herself for raising anti-apparation wards around the place, and discovering, even as she got there, that the lightning bolt was just seconds from impacting squarely on her parent's home. Hermione could only watch as the tip of the bolt touched down, shattering the rooftop like a hammer on corningware. She could only watch as yet another ripple, another wave, another forming disc of accreted material coalesced, its fury and its power and its destruction as inevitable as the wrath of God, began shredding to pieces all the comfortable, middle-class suburban homes in the area.

"POTTER!" she wailed, as though his very name were an insult, an abomination.

Having some sense of self-preservation, Hermione apparated away before she found herself assaulted by the mélange of flaming shingles that were being flung in all directions as the all-consuming energy blew apart each row of houses one after the other. Having only one destination in mind, and not caring how she managed to do it, she apparated herself to Harry Potter through sheer force of will.

"Hey, Herm," Harry said, waving to her as she appeared atop the tower bridge. He already had another lightning bolt in hand, and he didn't waste any time slamming it down on the concrete slab between him and Hermione Granger.

"CRUCIO!" she shrieked, an inch thick beam of amber energy pooling out of her wand and jetting towards Harry. However, before it could reach, the top of the bridge was blown to pieces, Harry just barely managing to apparate to the other side and impacting Hermione as they were both flung off the top of the tower and sent plummeting towards the rapidly moving river below.

"You want a piece of me, motherfucker?" he asked, shoving his thumbs into her throat and holding on for dear life, praying that she would be crushed and dead before they hit the water. "You want a piece of me? Huh? Well come on, then. Come and take a piece of me!"

Harry charged his hands so that tendrils of energy were now snaking their way through her skin and battering at the simple wandless shield she had managed to erect. Already, bruises were forming around her neck, and it wouldn't be long before she had her windpipe crushed.

"Gurgh," she sputtered, sending drops of saliva spattering across the backs of his hands.

"You crazy, fucked up bitch. I'm going to cut a hole in your worthless, Goddamned throat and then I'm going to rape it until you're fucking dead. How does that fucking sound?"

Harry and Hermione had picked up dangerous levels of speed in the few seconds it took to fall from the top of the tower to the water below. At the last moment, just as Harry expected Hermione's head to be crushed by the impact against the water, she managed to sidelong apparate them in a deft feat of magic, reversing their order so that she was on top, his fingers still wrapped around her throat. Harry hardly had time to comprehend what she had done, or the smug expression on her face, before his head hit the water, snapping upward at an odd angle, with his body following not a tenth of a second later, the distinctive sound of bones breaking and nerves being damaged as his body plunged into the freezing cold of the water, breaking through the thin layer of ice that had formed over top of it and sending his body into a paralyzing shock.

Not again, his mind thought absently as he fought to retain consciousness.

However, before he could do anything as simple as make it to shore, Harry had to contend with his next major problem. Looking up he could see the morning light twinkling down on him through the fabric of the translucent ice, and amidst that grey tableau, he saw chunks of dark objects coming down, and realized, with a jolt, even as hypothermia was warring with his magic, that his last lightning bolt had drilled right through the tower and blew it apart, sending large chunks of concrete and metal and God only knew what else crashing down. Harry first tried to apparate in a desperate bid to escape, but only managed to splinch himself, so that one arm was nearly fifteen feet from him, and, to his horror, rapidly turning blue. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he chanted, not having the foggiest clue how to reverse a splinching.

Praying this would work, he was just about to apparate back, before a particularly large chunk of stone crashed down through the ice and landed clean on top of his arm, dragging it down into the depths and causing a distinct shearing, effectively cutting the arm off his body for good and causing blood to start gushing out into the freezing water. Harry's eyes widened that much further as he watched the water turn red in a swirl of blood.

Already his magic was fixing it though, and Harry just managed to float himself to the top and break through the ice, so that he could inhale air and not waste vital magic conjuring it directly into his lungs. He flopped down on the nearest patch of ice, praying it wouldn't collapse and send him back down into the water. Already, as his mind reasserted itself, an uncontrollable shivering overtook him as he tried to shake off the initial onset of hypothermia. Unfortunately, it seemed that the bridge wasn't done with him.

From above, the light seeming to twinkle, he saw one of the suspension wires from the bridge snake downward in a wide arc and lash at him, slicing clean through the ice like a giant razor blade and plummeting Harry back into the water, his arm only half-regrown and twitching awkwardly as he tried to swim, and gave up, only to have to dodge another lash of the whip by plunging his head into the water, the whip just grazing his head and lashing off all his hair. WHAT THE FUCK? his mind screamed as he thrust his head out of the water to stare up at the sky, where he saw another pair of suspension cables hitting the water some distance away. Dimly, through the haze of numbing cold and the pain that racked his body, not the least of which was the fractured skull and unknown neck trauma that was still in the process of healing. At first, Harry couldn't figure out what the giant whip-like objects were, thinking that maybe they were one of Hermione's conjurations, though how she could have conjured something so large and kept such a tight control on them was beyond him, but then, after seeing the ones falling in the distance, he could only wonder. That is, until it clicked like a sudden epiphany.

The suspension wires.

Yeah, but, his mind thought, if the wires are falling, then what's holding up the bridge?

Well, the answer to that, was actually kind of obvious: nothing.

Sure enough, when Harry looked up, he saw the first of what would undoubtedly be many cars plunging head first into the river, the headlights shining down like searchlights into the murky depths.

the bridge had contorted into a corkscrew like shape, with innumerable cracks, large and small, running all along its body as the few remaining supports tried futilely to hold onto its massive weight. As surely as the sun rises, the bridge, in all its glory, came plummeting toward the water, most of it in one single, giant heap.

Harry did the only thing he could think of. He swam as fast and as hard as his magic could take him in order to get away from the monstrosity that was at least several hundred tonnes, if not thousands. Like a meteor, the impact of the enormous bridge hitting the water raised two large waves that exploded outward to either side. As fast as Harry was, he was quickly overtaken by the wave and simply carried along, his body raising a physical shield to try and cocoon him from the worst of it, and having to scale back any healing operations, which meant that he was doused in a liberal amount of pain as he was jostled about, his neck fracturing where it had been partially healed, effectively paralyzing him for the moment, forcing him to watch as his mangled arm broke apart once more and began spilling fresh blood.

By now, the blood loss alone was getting to him, making him faint, woozy, dizzy and all around nauseous. After a particular bump, where his cocoon was cracked down the middle, probably by some large chunk of stone, Harry lurched and spewed bile and hydrochloric acid, and, not having actually eaten anything, a wad of stomach lining all across his cocoon, which now mingled with the blood and fresh water that was seeping in.

This is so gross, Harry thought, sloshing about in the putrid fluids, before falling into a state of semi-conscious delirium.

Harry's magic pulled him back to reality as the water around him settled, and, once establishing that his cocoon was no longer necessary, vanished it, sending him tumbling back into the freezing water.

"Wha-?" he asked, blinking away the remains of the stomach acids and the blood and bile as he peered about in the water, which, now that he wasn't in imminent peril, realized was actually kind of gross. Is that sewage? he wondered, staring at an unidentifiable blackish goo that was drifting lazily by.

Harry noticed that his hand had mostly reformed, thankfully, and that his neck was only tender. Still, he felt incredibly drained and an overall ache had formed in his body. He had a feeling that, like his failure to regrow his hand after the Azkaban affair, he would not be able to shake the persistent ache from his bones simply by using magic. There were some traumas that not even magic could fix, it seemed.

Harry slowly picked his way to the shoreline and crawled up the embankment until he reached a level grassy patch where he proceeded to evaporate all the snow and create a warm oasis for his body to rest. From there, he just lay down, face first, trying to get the smell of vomit and blood from his nose by inhaling the scent of dead grass. As such, he didn't immediately notice two most unwelcome figures approach.

"Well, well, well well well," Hermione said smugly, nudging Harry's shoulder with her toe. Harry blinked and gaze blearily up at them, noticing with no small amount of satisfaction that Hermione was leaning on Griffin for support and that she had lost one of her hands.

Hermione followed Harry's gaze to the stump at the end of her left arm, and pursed her lips briefly before adopting her fake smile. "Never you worry, old friend. I'm perfectly ambidextrous, and that extends to my wand usage, as well." With her one good hand, she waved Griffin's wand about and silently created a network of magical threads that snaked together around Harry to form a dome-shaped cage.

Harry eyed the edges warily, still hoping that he could enjoy a few minutes of rest before re-engaging them in another battle.

"What's this?" Harry asked, gesturing at the dome.

"It's a cage, obviously," Hermione lectured in her bossy, know-it-all tone. "I rather thought that was obvious, even for you, Harry."

Deciding he wanted answers more than a verbal sparring match, he persisted, "Yes, but what makes you think it'll hold me?"

"Ah, well, it is a rather ingenious creation, if I do say so myself," she said, instinctively rubbing her hands together in anticipation of giving the explanation, before realizing she didn't actually have two hands. Disgruntled, she just said, "The material of the cage absorbs and reflects magic, making it near impervious to magical blasts. It is the ultimate magical cage for holding even the most powerful of wizards, and certainly for holding ones that have few brains." She gave a pointed look to Harry, to make sure he got the point.

"Ah," Harry said, "just checking. Though I do wonder, how exactly do you plan to attack me? I reckon this shield keeps things out just as much as it keeps things in."

At Harry's words, Hermione's smile fell away and was replaced with a scrunching of her face, as though she couldn't quite believe she'd overlooked this fact, and was now desperately searching for a solution.

Harry wondered if the shield guarded against apparation, but, after his snafu with his last attempt, decided not to risk it until he felt it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he wanted to see what his ex-friend came up with next.

Eventually, Hermione came upon a solution. Without saying a word, she, still using Griffin's wand, as her own had been destroyed in the water, snaked razors around the edges of the magical cage and, having made sure that it was suitably dangerous to touch, began shrinking the mesh ever so slowly, so that it encroached upon Harry's body like a slow moving shredder. Griffin, in a fit of inspiration, wandlessly set the thing to rotate around Harry as it moved toward him.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, instinctively throwing a stunner at the thing only to have to deflect it away from him. He quickly conjured a stone shield around his body, hoping that it would be enough to stop the approach of the blades. "bitch," he swore, sensing the blades grinding into his shield, and, as it inched ever closer, he found he could do less and less magic as the energy of the shield interfered with his own magic. Leave it to Hermione to drum up a simple, elegant solution to defeating a superior adversary. Over the din of the blades grinding against his shield, he heard her say, "I did want to make you suffer after what you did to my parents, but I suppose this will have to do."

He took a moment to render his shield invisible, so that he could spy out at the grinning visages of his captors. The shield seemed to be weaker around his feet, because it broke through there first. No doubt his magic felt that his feet were the most expendable body parts. Great, my own magic is going to ensure that I have the most excruciating death possible, he thought bitterly.

Just as the razors were digging lacerations into his heels and lopping off his pinky toe, Harry saw through the haze of pain a sight for sore eyes.

A long trio of blades attached to an ornate-looking trident was currently sticking out of Griffin's head, Griffin's eyes rolling about in their sockets as if searching for the intrusion. Behind Griffin, standing like a specter of death, was none other than Lord Voldemort himself. The razors stopped their approach as Hermione whirled around to place all her concentration on her new adversary. With reckless abandon, she began firing off an impressive spread of spells that Voldemort easily repelled simply by putting Griffin's body in the way of them, and which he sent several in return for, not the least of which was a killing curse. Hermione then switched to doing everything in her power to extricate her soul mate, who was slowly dying as brain fluids were leaking out of the three puncture wounds in his head. Voldemort, still holding onto the handle of his trident, jiggled it like a chef shaking a stubborn piece of steak off the end of his barbecue fork, which had the effect of making Griffin do a little gyrating dance, like a demented puppet.

Enraged at the ruthless and humiliating treatment of her soul mate, Hermione began apparating around Lord Voldemort, executing a number of conjurations and generally making the ground unstable in the hopes of destabilizing Voldemort so she could summon her boyfriend back to her.

Harry, realizing he had only about three minutes before Voldemort annihilated the both of them, searched desperately for a way out of his cage. Come on, you retarded fuckwad, think of something. Harry peered about while trying to maintain a clear head and trying to not be distracted by the vicious battle. Hermione must have done something right, for he vaguely heard Griffin staggering about and moaning, and Harry imagined him clutching his head trying to stop the fluids from leaking out or his skull from oxidizing and killing him.

If she can snake blades around them, then that means you can navigate between the bars of the cage. Glancing around, he saw that the largest opening he could find, especially now with the razors in the way, was about half an inch in diameter. Hmm, he thought. Well, that's an abysmal plan. Still, it seemed like the best one, and, recalling Krum's half-assed attempt to transfigure himself into a shark during the second task of the tournament in his fourth year, Harry figured he could at least try turning himself into something really small. A fly? he wondered. No, he'd seen that movie once before, and wasn't prepared to go down that road.

"A mosquito? he wondered.

It's gotta be something with some brains, for God's sake, he thought irritably. What the fuck's got brains and can remember to transfigure itself back?

A beetle! he thought. Yes! Thank you, Rita!

Harry immediately concentrated all his magic on himself. He was always rather shitty at transfiguration, and had never really learned the art of doing it to oneself, but he figured he was a better wizard than Krum, and had at least a snowball's chance in Hell of getting it right, if that could be counted as a chance.

Within seconds, Harry found himself staring at the world from a totally different perspective. he tried to glance around, but saw that nothing was as it should be. That is, until he realized that he in fact was a beetle. And not just any beetle, but a dung beetle, no less.

Kafka, eat your hart out, he thought, beginning the march towards freedom. Suddenly, fifteen inches was a bit more of an odyssey than it normally would have been. Still, after getting the walking on all fours down, and traversing the mess of leaves and dirt, he made it to the barrier and found, to his delight that he was perfectly able to traverse the razor blades. Not wanting to spend any longer in the cage than possible, he scurried past them and continued onward until he was safe he could transform without bumping into it.

"FREEDOM!" he cried out, pumping one fist into the air and staring up at the now clear blue sky. And I didn't even lose my balls in the process.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Harry," said Lord Voldemort.

Harry glanced over to where the duel had taken the trio and saw to his delight that Lord Voldemort was standing over Griffin's motionless corpse, Hermione kneeling beside him, her hands on his head, her tears spilling onto his face. She was sobbing.

Lord Voldemort continued, "These foolish children should not have underestimated my ability to manipulate soul magic. I have severed their bond, which is no doubt magnifying young miss Granger's sorrow ten fold. I have also destroyed her lover completely and utterly, leaving her alone. She no longer has his extraordinary powers to draw upon. She is as pathetic as the day she was born. She is nothing more than a mudblood."

Hermione gazed up at Lord Voldemort through her tear-filled eyes with a mixture of hatred and fear and confusion on her face.

"I was wondering if you would perhaps care to do the honours, Harry," Voldemort said, gesturing towards Hermione, who responded by snapping her attention to Harry.

Upon seeing him rising to his feet, she fell back on her haunches and tried to scurry away, her previous fear now morphing into terror. "H-Harry," she squeaked. "Please, you don't understand. Please, please forgive me. I'm sorry. I told you I love you. I - please we can start over. Please."

Harry just grinned the goofiest, most psychotic grin he had ever grinned before, and it was probably because he was loopy with the swirl of emotions that looking at the girl in front of him incited in his mind, which flashed from one image to the next, all seven years worth of them, from the good to the bad, all the mix of emotions, all of them tainted with the knowledge of her betrayal. "If you're truly sorry," Harry said quietly and in a voice like steel, "then you'll pay the consequence."

"Consequence?" Hermione asked uncomfortably. "What consequence, Harry?"

"What consequence do you reckon there should be, given that you murdered Bill Weasley? Kingsley? Fred and George?"

"Er, well, you murdered my parents. Maybe we could call it even?"

Harry continued to advance, though stalking might have been a more appropriate word. The light of lunacy never left his eyes, nor did the grin on his face. "You have five seconds before I start hunting you down, sugar," Harry hissed.

"Harry, no, please!"

But Harry wasn't listening. The sight of her groveling, begging, pleading for mercy after everything made her sound more like a cheap Slytherin than a Gryffindor, and that, somehow, offended him more than anything. He wanted to tell her to take her punishment like a man, though he wasn't sure the sentiment quite fit, given that she, in fact, wasn't actually a member of the male sex, and saying, "Take it like a woman," just sounded odd. As to the measure of the punishment, Harry was certain he knew what to dole out. Specifically, Hermione Granger had to die, and, by the ultimate fear shining through in her eyes, she knew that he had decided to execute her. The only question that remained was the method of execution. In his punch-drunk, manic, weary mind, he was certain that it had to be personal. It had to be personal in the same way that her betrayal had been personal. He had to exact from her the precise form of retribution that would purge his feelings of hatred that he associated with her, and, in so doing, leave only an empty wasteland of quietude where memories of her would have otherwise resided.

Her death had to be up close, and it had to be physical, and, most of all, he had to see the life being leeched from her eyes, one bit at a time, each sound, each breath escaping her body bringing her inevitably closer to oblivion. He had to feel it, her warm body, her soft skin in his hands, in his grip. That was all he knew for certain, and it was all he needed to know. There would be no curses and no charms and no transfigurations thrown. He would pursue her to the ends of the Earth, wherever she went, and he would crush the life from her body with his bare hands, whether it be strangling her, bashing her face in, crushing her skull between his hands, or simply chewing through her throat with his teeth. With these rambling thoughts flowing through his mind's eye, Harry suddenly felt as though two arms, two hands, were simply not enough. He needed to be all over her, to not stop at any point, to have her in his grip in her entirety. Yes, he thought, every second which he spent staring at her quivering form driving him further into his own hatred. Yes, I will need more. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, Harry stretched both his arms out to either side, and focused, and, before he knew it, two more arms had grown out of his mid-section, and his shirt was shredded away, leaving his bear chest exposed, and, with his hair having been stripped away earlier by the suspension wires, he was left bald and looking more like a demon than a human. "Hanging's too good for you," he said, still advancing. "Burning's too good for you." He pounded one fist against a tree, which had the effect of ripping it clean out of the ground and sending it rolling uselessly down the embankment. "I'm going to tear you into itty bitty pieces, and bury you alive."

"Eep!" Hermione squeaked before she disapparated.

Harry just kept on grinning and followed after her, Lord Voldemort standing around more than a little amused.

Muggles were coming to investigate the commotion, and see if there were perhaps any people hurt from the fall out of the bridge. Lord Voldemort decided, in a fit of whimsy, that he would torture them a bit before going home.


	9. I Love You Too, Hermione

Chapter Nine

I Love You Too, Hermione

Hermione spent sixty-eight hours apparating almost constantly from one location to the next in what she would eventually realize to be a futile attempt at evading her pursuer, who, as time progressed, she would come to think of as the Reaper. If someone had told her days ago that she would have the magical power to survive without sleep or food or water for sixty-eight hours straight, all while under the constant threat of death and being forced to apparate every six seconds, she would have laughed and claimed that no one on Earth, not even Lord Voldemort had stamina of that magnitude.

Yet, oddly enough, she had done it, and had done so, because, when the only other option open to her was to simply give up and die in what she rightly believed would be a rather unpleasant death - well, that was a pretty good motivator, she reckoned.

At first, Hermione had thought that apparating to an area populated by muggles would force Harry to think twice about apparating with his demonic appearance, or, at least, force him to pursue her from the shadows, affording her more opportunities to escape by more conventional means. However, Harry had swiftly and brutally disabused her of that notion by apparating mere feet from her and simply lifting the nearest person, who happened to be some college student chain-smoker type with blue hair, and hurling him fifteen feet into a brick wall so that his back cracked audibly upon contact, effectively severing his spinal cord and killing him within moments. Needless to say, people fled right quick from his path, easily clearing a line to Hermione who spent only about four seconds actually running before apparating once more.

Fool, she had thought. He just spent the morning murdering tens of thousands of muggles. What does he care if he kills a few more?

Hermione's next stop was apparating to Diagon Alley, where she hoped that she could play the part of a damsel in distress and that at least one proficient dueller would stand up and hold Harry off. Truthfully, she didn't understand how Harry had been managing his wandless abilities, but was certain that it couldn't be natural and that he would eventually become exhausted.

Again, she was disabused of these hopes rather quickly.

Sure enough, there were people bustling about Diagon Alley, and, to Hermione's pleasure, it couldn't have worked out better, for there was an extra contingent of Aurors due to the Christmas rush. Hermione didn't even bother apparating to the apparation safe zone, instead appearing right outside Olivander's and immediately proceeding to run screaming down the main road, "HELP! HELP!" with her arms flailing about uselessly to either side. She was sure to take a moment to unbutton the top button of her blouse to show off a bit of cleavage to help spur some of the male Aurors into action. It seemed to work, because she heard the familiar sound of spellfire being discharged behind her, and, so, stopped and turned to watch. After all, she couldn't apparate unless she was sure that Harry was completely occupied. Otherwise he might notice and follow her apparation trail.

"Reducto!"

"Stupefy!"

"Incarcerus!"

"Stupefy! Stupefy!"

"AARGH!" Harry roared, not paying attention at all to the spells that were simply bouncing off his rippling chest. One of the nearby Aurors aimed an evisceration curse at him after seeing that the standard defense spells weren't working, and, even as the spell splashed uselessly against Harry's magically altered skin, the Auror was aiming a second shot, only to end up getting lifted off the street as Harry picked him up with one good arm and waved him around like a rag doll, his wand clattering uselessly to one side.

One of the Aurors, desperately flung a killing curse at Harry, who just threw the Auror he was holding onto in its way, before charging past them, now grabbing two more people, just simple passersby and waving them around maniacally as he charged Hermione, who just stood there flabbergasted as Harry hurled one of the bodies toward her, the witch's robes fluttering about her as she careened into Hermione, knocking the pair of them backwards. However, as Harry's shadow loomed over her, she apparated away, taking herself to yet another place where she could perhaps have a moment's reprieve. Again, though, it would only last a few moments.

This time, Hermione went to the top of a skyscraper, hoping that Harry would charge her and perhaps she could send him falling over the edge. No such luck. Harry charged and, just as she apparated, she sensed rather than saw him apparate as well, following almost immediately on her heels and forcing her to apparate once more the instant she touched down, for Harry was almost in front of her, still swinging one dangerous hand. Hermione just barely felt the brush of his skin before she made it to an empty field in the province of Saran, France. Not that it made any difference. Harry was sure to come, but that didn't disturb her too much. Hermione had a plan. From France, she jumped to Belgium, and from Belgium, she jumped to Germany, and then to Romania, and from there she darted about Romania a few times until she came upon the dragon reserves, that she had once read about.

Praying this would work, she apparated right into one of the dragon dens, and, just as Harry was appearing, she apparated ten feet deeper into the den, and then ten feet further, as she heard Harry charging after her. Once she felt the noxious, warm puff of air that signalled an oncoming dragon, she apparated further just once more, which put her less than five feet from a Chinese Fireball, where she waited only a second before apparating fifteen feet further into the den, which put her pressed against the back wall of the cavern, the dragon's hind claws uncomfortably close to her vulnerable body.

The trick seemed to have worked, because the Fireball went after Harry, who she heard roaring on the other side and being doused with a liberal amount of fire. Having a moment to collect herself, she found that she was filled with indecision. She could either wait and see if Harry succumbed to the dragon's assault, or she could try and take off and pray he was too preoccupied to notice her. Neither solution seemed very likely. She had never seen wandless abilities like his before, except perhaps with house elves, though how house elves could have played a role in his situation was beyond even her imaginings. And the only texts that talked about manipulating one's own body such that he could grow additional limbs that were perfectly functional were in the deepest studies of necromancy. She doubted anyone in the past century with the exception of Lord Voldemort himself had ever dared such a thing.

The dragon's powerful jets of fire, which were one of their few formidable weapons did not, it seemed, faze Harry, because the Fireball proceeded to roar and lumber forward, only to get stopped midway, and, to Hermione's horror, stagger backward, as if struck by a tremendous blow. She crept to one side and watched as the dragon swiped a huge claw at Harry, who responded by clutching the claw out of midair, which was an inhuman feat that could only have happened with the aid of tremendous magical power. And then, to Hermione's further astonishment, he yanked on the claw, dragging the entire dragon forward, which must have weighed around five tonnes, before the dragon dug its remaining claws into the earth to keep it from being pulled forward. Still, Harry did not let go and instead, grabbed one claw in each of his four hands from the one paw he was holding onto and snapped each one as though they were toothpicks. The Fireball howled and it was only at the last second that Hermione realized what Harry was doing. The Fireball, now in a frenzied state, began whipping its tail savagely about, which, if Hermione had not apparated right that second, would have whacked her against the wall and at the very least driven her unconscious.

It continued that way for a long time. Hermione continued to apparate and continued to devise crazier and crazier strategies for killing Harry or at least injuring him, and each one in turn failed, demonstrating yet again his unmatched superior power.

Until finally, she attempted to apparate and simply failed. This time, she was in Australia, in a muggle airport, where she hoped she could get on a plane, preferably with a parachute over the Indian ocean and disappear in the waves far below, despite the fact that she'd never gone parachuting in her entire life. However, it did not matter, because she no longer had the strength to apparate past the security gates, and instead staggered drunkenly forward before collapsing face first onto the unyielding tile floor.

An elderly lady knelt beside her, inquiring as to whether she was feeling well, to which Hermione simply mumbled incoherently.

The elderly woman never noticed the deep shadow cast by Harry, who now stood over them.

"Er, Emily," an elderly man said, coming next to his wife and pulling her way as he tried to keep one eye on the hulk.

"What is it, Leonard?" she asked irritably. "This girl needs medical attention." However, Emily said no more as her gaze fell upon Harry, which drove her into cardiac arrest, effectively killing her.

Harry paid them no mind. This was Hermione's third trip to the airport. The last one had been to the Israeli airport, where some of the guards had machine guns that she managed to manipulate into opening fire on Harry, who simply batted the bullets away like pesky insects. And now, he had her. Finally, after so much time had passed.

Hermione seemed to come out of her semi-conscious stupor, for she looked dazedly up at Harry and said in a strangely bewildered voice, "Harry?" as though she were in the midst of a dream, which, she probably was.

Harry found himself overcome with a terrible sense of pity for his one time friend. He remembered not too long ago that he would have done just about anything for Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. He would have died, and probably killed too, and he would have done a number of other atrocious things for them.

"Yes, Hermione, it's me," he replied softly. His eyes were no longer glowing with the fervor of the hunt.

"Oh good," she said. "I thought it might've been Ron... You know, I wouldn't have wanted him to see me like this."

"It's fine," Harry said, kneeling down beside her, his body retracting his two additional arms and hair sprouting out of his head and a shirt materializing around his torso, effectively returning him to the average, scrawny-looking teenager that one normally associates with the name Harry Potter.

"Wake me up when it's morning, would you?" she asked sleepily. She attempted to snuggle into the tile floor, and, though it surely must have been uncomfortable, she did a miraculous job of falling asleep. Harry wasn't terribly surprised. His own body was screaming at him to go pass out somewhere; preferably someplace a little more private than an airport floor.

Still, Harry had a job to do, and he couldn't leave before finishing it.

"Good night, Hermione," he said quietly. "Let angels guide thee to thine resting place."

Harry wrapped his cybernetic hand around her neck and slowly squeezed, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh of her throat, right around her thyroid, where he instinctively knew he could cut off her oxygen supply. She was so drained, that she hardly seemed to notice, choosing only to twitch occasionally to, as far as Harry could tell, try and find a more comfortable sleeping arrangement. After holding down his fingers for no less than five minutes, after which her breathing had slowed to a rasp and finally cut off altogether, he let go.

Hermione Granger was dead.

Time passed. The Spring came and went. The remaining rags that comprised the Order of the Phoenix quietly disbanded. None of them were muggle-borns anyway, and they were simply too tired and had lost too much to put any effort into the war. They were just ordinary citizens anyway, and they could only have done so much. The remaining Weasleys, Arthur, Ginny and Charlie retired to a wizarding village in France to stay with Fleur, who it seemed, had become pregnant with Bill's child. They would try to build roots there, as difficult as it was, given that they were British through and through. Remus and Tonks chose to stay behind in England, adopting a ramshackle little home on the outskirts of a muggle village where they could have privacy, given Remus's condition.

Minerva McGonagall, who had been absent that night that the massacre at Grimmauld Place occurred, simply remained at Hogwarts and did her best to repel the pressure that the Board of Governors were applying to have the curriculum altered in anti-muggle ways. As long as Voldemort continued to gain strength, however, it would be a futile effort.

Likewise, the Ministry was ill-equipped to deal with a well-resourced, magically powerful and highly intelligent terrorist group. It was simply not built to respond effectively in wartime situations, due to the destabilizing effects of all the political in-fighting.

The only real defense that remained against the Dark Lord Voldemort was Harry James Potter. Despite how bleak things looked after the demise of the Order and the failure of the Ministry, the situation, overall, was looking up. It was a certainty, for example, that, after the death of Hermione Granger on Christmas Eve, and, for quite some time before that even, the Dark Lord had lost all his horcruxes and was mortal for the first time in fifty years. Harry Potter knew it, and so did the Dark Lord. It would only be a matter of time before they crossed paths once more, and, when that happened, a resolution would be reached. Things like school curricula, Ministry policies, etc. would move on from there, either for better or worse. Until then, any gains made one way or the other could be considered transitory, at best.

June 21.

It was high noon, and Harry could be found standing amidst the ruin of yet another pureblood manor, this one belonging to the Crabbes. Since his complete disaffection from both the wizarding and muggle worlds, Harry decided that there wasn't much else to do except kill people. The Daily Prophet had branded him a Dark Lord, and the Ministry had put him at the top of their 'To Kill' list. He took a sick sort of satisfaction from bumping Voldemort to the #2 spot. He had even gotten a new name, which he thought was rather apt: He-Who-Fucked-Us-All.

It was a bright, sunny day that was expected of the summer solstice. Around him lay pools of stone dust, burnt papers, wood splinters, various shredded fabrics, and, last but not least, body parts. Harry absently kicked a charred arm out of his way as he surveyed the wreckage. Aurors would be coming soon, but he didn't care. Harry found he cared little who he actually killed these days, so long as they were in his way and interested in putting up at least a modicum of effort in surviving. That's what made the hunt fun.

That's not to say that Harry was without a compass. On the contrary, he targeted known supporters of Voldemort, in his ceaseless search for the traitors Severus Snape and Peter Pettigrew. Today, he had finally hit the jackpot. Harry had raised an anti-apparation ward over the Manor before he had rained down upon it with magical lightning bolts akin to what he used to devastate muggle London six months earlier. These had proven surprisingly effective against the ancient pureblood wards that had protected these homes for centuries, which was fortunate, because Harry was neither smart enough, nor patient enough to bother learning warding, past the few he needed to contain his victims long enough to kill them.

"Severus," Harry called out. "Come out now. Do not make me root for you amidst the rubble. Even for a Slytherin, it's degrading." Harry stalked calmly through the wreckage, surveying the debris in search of any of the familiar magical markers that told of a wizard's presence. Of all the Dark Lord's Death Eaters, Severus had been particularly elusive, though whether that was because he was smarter and more powerful than the others or whether it was because he was the last remaining potions master in Voldemort's inner circle, and, thus, worth protecting, Harry did not know. Nor did it matter. Harry had finally caught up to him, though it was more apt to say he happened upon him by chance, as he was obliterating the Crabbe ancestral home. For what purpose Severus had been there, Harry cared not, nor did he intend to ask. It was enough that Severus had been found. To Harry, too much time had been spent talking, strategizing, planning, contemplating, and he was altogether sick of it. He was a Gryffindor, and that meant he went around blowing things up mindlessly. It was the one trait that Snape had always berated him for, and it was the one trait that he was going to stick to. It also satisfied him immensely that, in living by a code for which Severus Snape had only the deepest contempt, Harry had managed to best him. "Come now, Severus. You wouldn't want this arrogant whelp of a boy to consider you a coward, would you?" Why it was that Snape found an insult to his courage so offensive, Harry did not know. Again, he did not care, either, so long as it got him his little traitor.

After what he now referred to as the Granger crime, Harry decided that, above all else, he hated traitors. If people didn't have the decency to be honest about shit, even if they were super-evil, then they didn't deserve to live. Harry was pretty sure it was a lousy assertion with little moral basis, but little things like moral bases didn't really bother him anymore.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Harry called tauntingly. No doubt the good Professor is waiting for a good shot at me. Harry would have gladly let him take the shot, assuming it wasn't the killing curse, though he wondered if, in his half-alive state, he could possibly repel that, as well. He decided that maybe it would be useful after all to learn about the killing curse. He was sure he could put a shield like the one Voldemort conjured in Azkaban to good use.

Severus did not seem to want to play, so Harry switched to being a little more aggressive with his search. As the sun rained streams of shining yellow light down upon him, making his pale skin glisten, his black hair shine, his sunglasses glint ominously, Harry began laying waste to the wreckage around him, simply blowing things up even more than they already had been, sending bouts of stone shrapnel rocketing into the air and showering down around him like boiling water from Icelandic geysers. It was not long before he came upon Severus, who had had the presence of mind to transfigure himself into an innocuous looking rock in a halfway decent attempt to evade Harry's investigation.

Wandlessly and without moving a muscle, Harry transfigured him back into a human, already stripping him of his wand with enough force that he ended up ripping out Snape's entire right arm.

To Snape's credit, he merely grunted and tried to scamper back, as though he could possibly make it to the anti-apparation boundary by crawling one-armed. He didn't even bother issuing a single word to Harry, knowing full well he had no chance in the world of defeating him. To many, Harry had become a kind of demon-God, much like Voldemort himself. Nobody understood him. They failed to comprehend what drove him from day to day, the reasons that motivated him to get up in the morning. But then again, how could they? these were people with happy lives, with families who got together at night around a dining table and told stories. These were people who had time in their lives to eat mangos and noodle salads and learn the piano. These were people who loved and people who feared, and people who loved and feared were the kind of people who could be ruled. Harry was nothing like that.

Harry just walked calmly after him, his eyes flicking occasionally to the trail of blood and bits of flesh that were oozing out of Snape's mangled shoulder socket and dripping onto the mess of rocks that now sat amidst the otherwise brilliant throng of evergreens that surrounded the Manor.

People like Voldemort got off on subjecting their adversaries to grueling torture sessions, and Harry found he could understand that. However, he had decided that it was really not his cup of tea. It was the reason he could never really get on board with Moody's teachings. No, Harry preferred to see his victims struggle; to see that normally indomitable spirit persist again and again and again, failing each time, until, eventually, the continuous sense of loss permeated every fabric of their being, until it consumed their thoughts with despair and until it racked their bodies with pains that they, through their own futile efforts, had inflicted upon themselves.

His boots crunching against the broken wood and stones, Harry walked behind Severus for nearly forty-five minutes, maintaining a sedate pace and continuously adjusting the anti-apparation ward so that Severus never got within twenty feet of the boundary. Harry noticed with some amusement that Severus had endured a multitude of scrapes and lacerations across his torso and his one arm and his legs as he continued to pick his way through the rough surface of the debris and even afterwards, as they entered the forest that surrounded the Manor. Harry even bothered to feed Severus a bit of his own magic to continue driving him, so that Severus could have a sort of second wind, to perhaps give him some false hope that Harry could use to utterly crush him shortly thereafter. And, now lost within the forest, with no particular direction left to go, and with the anti-apparation barrier firmly in place, Severus collapsed from fatigue and blood loss. His breathing was raspy and shallow and his eyes were squeezed shut, and Harry couldn't help but admire the man's incredible pain tolerance.

Harry walked up to the man that he had viciously referred to as a greasy git, once upon a time, and, now, looking into his pale face, he knew he had finally cracked Severus. It wasn't a major crack, and it probably would have healed itself given time, but Harry hadn't really expected anything less. Severus was a hard man. He was as hard as they came. One had to be to do what he did.

Harry drew out a dagger with a black handle and a black, stone blade. He had pilfered the stone from Azkaban, because he had been curious about what such a stained rock could do when properly applied. Now, he ran the tip of the blade across Snape's throat, cutting just enough to open a small tear in his jugular, so that warm blood began spilling out. It was a severe injury but not normally fatal to a wizard, unless, of course, that wizard had already suffered major wounds and if that wizard had no access to magical healing. Severus twitched awkwardly and tried to scrabble at his throat with his one hand, but his fate had already been sealed. Not five minutes later, the dewy earth wet with his blood, Severus Snape died.

That was how Harry went on for a long time. One Death Eater after the next, he himself always on the move, always searching, always willing to kill whoever crossed his path, always willing to torture for information, he ghosted across the wizarding and muggle world like a wraith, neither dead, nor alive.

As for the epic battle between Harry and Voldemort, well, it would come eventually. It had to, for it had been prophesied, albeit it was a prophecy derived from a demented twit of a seer. At this point in time, it's not clear who would win from such a battle, but, of course, that's always the difficulty when predicting outcomes between opponents who are equal to one another. In some ways, it didn't really matter anymore who the victor would be, because, as equals, there wasn't even really a difference between the two. They both lusted after the same thing to the exclusion of all else - killing one another. In that way, the prophecy was absolutely correct. Neither can live while the other survives.

THE END

Epilogue

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Harry, raising an eyebrow as Voldemort stood not five feet from the death veil.

Voldemort whirled around, a scowl already plastered across his face. "How did you know I would be here?"

Harry shrugged. "I make it my business to know these things."

Voldemort was clearly not satisfied with that answer, because he narrowed his eyes at Harry and reached out with tendrils of legilimancy.

Years ago, Harry would have not been able to deflect the subtle assault, but, now, things were different. Harry just reached out with his own energy, as subtle and deadly as a viper, and gently but firmly repelled Voldemort's attack, all the while smirking just a little bit. "Honestly, Voldemort, do you think that a weak attempt like that is going to best me?" Harry asked, amused, his eyes twinkling in a rather infuriating way.

"So you're an occlumans now," Voldemort hissed, switching to Parseltongue.

Harry just inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"It's not becoming of a Slytherin to state the obvious, Voldemort."

Voldemort just sighed and turned to face Harry completely. "There's no way I can convince you to come back a little later, is there?"

Harry shook his head.

"I've noticed you haven't raised an anti-apparation ward," Voldemort commented, glancing about as if to make a show of his casualness, as if to obscure the underlying tension. "Curious. I could just apparate away and return another time."

Harry smiled broadly. "Be my guest." He even went so far as to hold his hand out like an usher directing traffic. "The door's right over there. You can even walk, if it pleases you."

"Dammit, Potter! How'd you know?"

At Voldemort's clearly discomfited tone, Harry couldn't help but grin goofily. "You really can be a bit of a dweeb, sometimes." Harry shook his head, his smile never wavering. "You've spent the last five years trying to gain back some semblance of immortality. Some means against which to defend yourself from the killing curse. It has always been your weakest point."

"What do you mean?" Voldemort asked.

"I even know about your merger with that disgusting Siberian micrococcal fungus," Harry went on, not even bothering to address Voldemort's question. As if in response, a tentacle burst out of Voldemort's shoulder and jiggled lewdly before retracting itself and sealing the gaping wound. "Er, right," Harry said, and then shaking his head. "I'm sure that's a real hit with the ladies." He then continued, ""But enough of that. I'm not going to waste my time talking, when we could be fighting. You and I both know the score." He gestured to the veil. "If you take off, I will seek to absorb its power for myself, before destroying it completely. Your only chance now is to fight."

Voldemort drew his wand, which Harry noticed with some curiosity, had as a wand core, a single drop of blood. However, he did not have time to ponder exactly what creature it had come from, because Voldemort was already conjuring an array of objects to aid him in his battle with Harry Potter.

Harry, on the other hand, simply pooled together lots of raw magic, letting it sizzle on his skin as it crystallized into a solid form and curled around him like glimmering diamond snakes.

Swiftly and without warning, magic flew from either side. However, unlike the conventional battle, where combatants hurled spells with cheesy sounding names vaguely reminiscent of Latin, the two duelists in the death chamber were experienced enough that they could manipulate incoming magic to render any particular application useless.

Consequently, the two mostly tried to pummel each other to death with either raw magic or large pointy objects.

The veil was a curious thing, to be sure. In many ways, it defied logic. You could not move it. You could not destroy it, with axe or sword or magic. It was a thing of contradictions. All along its body were markings that the foremost scholars on ancient texts and runes could only postulate about. Were they part of a runic language? One perhaps whose origins were as of yet undiscovered? The veil told of a story, yet no one could understand it.

Most curious of all is that you could see through it as clear as day, as though it were nothing more significant than a trellis on which to hang flowers. And yet, to be near it is to feel the call of something indescribable, to hear voices that drew you, told you of a place otherworldly. Students of the veil could only postulate that it took you to a place from which you could not return. Having only limited imaginations, that concept was synonymous with death.

That was why it had eventually been dubbed the Death Veil.

Being that it supposedly linked the realms of life and death to one another, it was obvious to anyone interested in immortality, that it would be a good place to start. After all, if you could figure out how to move between the two worlds, well, that would be a pretty good beginning to the whole project of not being dead, or, more aptly put, not having to stay that way.

Voldemort had, after the destruction of his horcruxes, sought out a more flexible means of gaining immortality. Instead of trying to keep from getting sucked over to the other side, he would develop a strategy that would allow him to navigate to and from the realm of the dead. Surely that would grant him immortality in a way that horcruxes had failed to. That way, even if he were murdered, he could simply cross back over, dust off his hands and pick up where he left off. If he were lucky, he could bypass the whole business of soul magic, which had proved to be rather cumbersome, all things considered.

But of course, Harry Potter had to go and ruin his day. It was bad enough that he was too scared to actually face the brat in open combat. For all his bravado, he wasn't a complete idiot. He knew that he only had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving an encounter with a Harry Potter in top form, and those weren't the kind of odds that a Slytherin favours. Oh how he cursed the day Severus told him Potter was an incompetent weakling. If his worthless excuse of a potions master were still alive, Voldemort would have cruciated him for days, non-stop.

And now he was stuck fighting the kid in a vicious, pitched battle in the bowels of the Ministry, of all places. Moreover, he had been caught totally off guard by Harry's arrival, which gave him a distinctly queasy feeling. If there was one thing Voldemort hated more than being beaten in a duel, it was experiencing queasiness.

"So, you want to play with the big bad veil, do you?" Harry asked, a lot of blood spilling down his body from the six dozen puncture wounds he suffered during the battle.

Despite having lost three pints of blood, which was liberally splashed around the stone amphitheatre, Harry was still looking a lot better than Voldemort himself, who had a missing rib that lay in pieces off to the left, one gouged out eyeball, which was stapled to the far wall, an exploded pancreas, that was still leaking out of his shredded kidneys, and a drill bit that had punctured his tympanic membrane and which was jutting out of his right ear.

"Get off me," Voldemort said, his front teeth spilling out of his mouth in a river of yellow pus.

"No, no, no," Harry said, as if lecturing a wayward first year student. "You want the veil, I'll give you the veil."

Voldemort seemed to think that Harry was going to throw him in, and, with sheer horror at that prospect, began to struggle fitfully, upsetting the brown fungus that had taken up permanent residence in his throat, and which thrust a tentacle that whipped about ominously as it searched for something outside Voldemort's mouth to latch onto.

"Oh no you don't," Harry wheezed, noticing absently that blood had stopped pouring out of his own body and getting the distinctly unnerving feeling that it had more to do with the fact that he was simply out of blood, as opposed to his wounds having simply clotted or scabbed over.

"Don't throw me in! Potter! I'll do anything!"

"Harry just raised an eyebrow and thrust a thumb at the archway. "You think I'm going to throw you in there?" he asked with no small amount of incredulity.

"It's the Death Veil, Potter. What else would you do with it?"

"Death Veil?" Harry asked curiously. "What makes you think it's a gateway to the realm of the dead?"

"Everybody knows that, Potter."

Harry just sighed. "Maybe, maybe not. For all I know, it sends you to Disneyland." Harry instinctively shuddered at the thought, before pressing onward. "No, I have a much more useful application for the bloody thing."

Voldemort, not sure whether to believe Harry, continued to struggle futilely against the magical energy that coiled around him. Since when the hell did Potter get so strong? he wondered somewhere in the back of his mind.

When they reached the archway, the voices now crescendoing to an ear-splitting buzz, Harry just stopped, and, after taking a moment to occlude his mind more fully from the voices, grabbed Voldemort more firmly by the side of his head and proceeded to smash it against the outer wall of the archway like it were a stubborn coconut.

"AAH!" Voldemort cried out, his one remaining eye rolling around in his head from the blow.

"I've heard this puppy's supposed to be, like, invincible," Harry said conversationally. "Reckoned I'd put that to the test."

Slam.

The second strike of Voldemort's head made a flat cracking sound, and Harry could see that blood was now leaking out of the side of his head. "I believe muggle doctors call that a subdural hemotoma. Let's see if we can't expand on that a little bit, shall we?"

Crack.

This time, there was a wet, sloshing sound that accompanied the further breaking of Voldemort's skull, and, even better - a slimy grey jelly now clung to the side of the archway. "I reckon that might count as a lesion," Harry said thoughtfully, examining the substance as it slid slowly down the side of the stone. Surprisingly, it reminded him of a gross fluid that once came out of a diseased prostitute's vagina that he had propositioned in Knockturn Alley. Harry looked over at Voldemort's skull and saw to his dismay that part of it had caved inward. Despite this, however, Voldemort still seemed to be alive. "Can't really get a lot of impact out of a squishy old brain," he muttered, more to himself than anybody. "Ah well, better to try and try again, than to not try at all, or something like that."

Thwack.

This time, a liberal amount of fluids splashed across the stone, accompanied by a sucking sound. When Harry pulled Voldemort's head away, he saw that a good third of the skull was bashed apart, leaving a wide open space through which he could make out the various tendrils of fleshy brain substance that composed Voldemort's ventromedial hypothalamus. Some of the veins had been damaged as well, and were now leaking blood down the network of crevices. "I don't think there's another hit left in you," Harry mused, and, instead of slamming Voldemort's head into the wall again, or simply dropping him, he turned Voldemort's head onto its side and shook it violently until the brain dislodged itself and fell in a heap on the floor. "that's better," Harry said, now seeming to be satisfied with his handiwork. He kicked the remainder of Voldemort's brains across the amphitheatre where it smacked wetly against the far wall; right next to his one stapled eye, in fact.

Needless to say, Voldemort was dead.

Harry didn't experience the sense of satisfaction that he felt he ought to have, given that he came out of his battle with Voldemort relatively unscathed. Well, sort of unscathed. It's doubtful people would regard being exsanguinated as a minor flesh wound, and certainly it would take Harry's necrotic body days or even weeks to heal from it. He probably wouldn't even manage to heal from it completely, or, at the very least, he could imagine the damage would cut a year or two off his life expectancy. But that didn't bother him so much, since he was alive, sort of, and that was really all that mattered. Still, he'd hoped to achieve a sense of completion, as though a chapter in his life had come to an end. Mostly, he just felt weary, and, in a quiet part of his mind, he felt a kind of sorrow that his purpose had been fulfilled. It was like coming to the end of a good movie, and knowing that the next film you saw was inevitably going to be a piece of crap compared to this one.

Of course, if there was one thing Harry James Potter did, it was soldier on, and that's what he went and did.

A/N: Fuck that was a monster to write.

Okay, housekeeping:

1. If the idea of living horcruxes amused you as much as it did me, then I would suggest taking on my megafic, Harry Potter and the Dark Lord, which is a much more sensible post-HBP tale, and which is about 250,000 words. It's not as dark as this one, but it features a strong, independent Harry who has a very mean cruciatus. It has a bit of a romance feel for the first few chapters, but I assure you it's temporary. The only thing I need to warn you about with respect to it is that a good third of the story is from Ron or Hermione's POV, and they're both strong and independent, though not as strong and independent as Harry, of course. Hermione will also be dark and mostly evil, just like this fic. Okay, enough with the self-promotion.

2. Obviously, if you have any comments, criticisms or whatever, feel free to communicate them to me. This fic is finished, so I won't be going back and making major changes. It's not my style. If you leave a review, I may or may not respond. For an actual discussion of the fic, you can do that, in theory, at There's a number of vague references in this fic. I'm curious to know just how vague they are. Do let me know if anything comes to mind.

4. Hmm, the Epilogue. Personally, I feel this fic has a lot of heavy action scenes that are personal, gruesome, and which form the basis for moving a lot of the plot along. As such, having yet another scene between Harry and Voldemort was boring to write, and it was boring to read. Therefore, I finished it without putting it in. However, I've been told that it's a bit of a cheat to do it that way, so, in my attempt to appease the masses in their entirety, I've tried to give you your cake and eat it.

5. If there's one question I'd like answered it's the following: I'm not a writer of comedy, but I've tried to integrate some into this fic. Obviously it's dark humour. Any suggestions or comments are appreciated in this regard. It's the only area in my writing that I'm not confident. (You're welcome to point out other perceived weaknesses, of course). I don't expect people to actually laugh while reading this fic, so much as perhaps experience some mild amusement.

6. I did not check any of my canon references, or any references relating to names, dates or places in England. The Sunlife building is a skyscraper in Edmonton, and Vermilion is a shitty little town just outside Edmonton.

7. If you're wondering what happened to Ron, then you have my sincere apologies. I basically threw him away. It's even more of an insult to his character than killing him off, which presupposes that he deserves screen time for such a thing as his own death. It wasn't my intention to do so, but I'm already nearing the maximum word limit for the Horcrux Challenge, and if anyone's going to get axed, it's going to be him.

8. Thanks for reading.

Until next time,

EB/QR


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